Vandeamon Writinghttp://vandeamon.com
Building better wordsFri, 09 Feb 2018 23:34:14 +0000en-GBhourly1Food Blog – Steak Burger Wrapshttp://vandeamon.com/2018/02/09/food-blog-steak-burger-wraps/
http://vandeamon.com/2018/02/09/food-blog-steak-burger-wraps/#commentsFri, 09 Feb 2018 22:23:50 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=379Read More]]>Before I begin, there is a little story to the birth of this dish. If you wish to read, continue on. Otherwise, feel free to skip down to the actual recipe below.

Very recently, I have taken a whole new career direction into my hands. With this came a few realizations regarding health as well as ensuring I take the time to eat properly. This was helped along, as you may imagine, by my love of cooking in general and this is not a hobby I was prepared to quit for the sake of playing video games. Gaming regularly had never been something that stopped me cooking my own meals before, but streaming them to an online audience changes things somewhat. It would be like a news anchor continually stepping away from the broadcast to make themselves a sandwich. Of course this never happens as they rotate with others at different times of day. I don’t have that specific work dynamic so I opted for a schedule that would leave me a chunk of free time to prepare my own food, eat it, let it digest, and clean up after myself before I go back online for a few hours more.

Initially, it has worked out well, though over the new year evening I had to rethink my options when I scheduled a twelve hour broadcast that would run over the 2017-2018 transition. I asked myself what I was going to do for food. I could just be lazy and put a store-bought instant meal in the microwave, or maybe cook a frozen pizza, but this is not particularly healthy as it is. OK for this one occasion that might not be an issue, but this is how bad habits start. Before long I would be streaming longer hours and ordering fast food deliveries to eat mid-stream so I don’t have to stop to cook for myself. Watching other more popular streamers, I noticed some of them do this, which is fine if they wish. Some of them are young and healthy while I am older and not very fit to begin with. Playing games for ten hours a day non-stop and eating pizza is a recipe for a heart attack and I would like to at least make it into my sixties before I have such concerns.

I thought about food options that I could eat on stream as I play, meaning it had to be something I could eat with one hand that was not messy. Something I could put on a side table by my computer, reach over, grab a portion and take a bite quickly as I continue to play for my audience. Pizza? No, but of course that sounds like it fits the bill, right? Something similar though. My mind drifted to tacos, but again they can be messy if the filling falls out and goes all over the place. So, wraps? I held onto tortilla wraps as an idea and soon planned to make slow-cooked shredded beef quesadillas. I could make them ahead of time, store them wrapped in cling film in the fridge, and reheat them while I take a 10 minute break to stretch my legs. Then I could eat them as I continue to play.

That evening though the filling would sometimes slip out, and on more than one occasion I would end up with grease running down my arm so I had to stop the show for a moment to clean up. Still, I felt there was room for refinement and, some weeks later, I did another twelve hour stream for the second game in this series.

This time I adapted a snack I usually make myself when I have leftover pulled pork or cooked chicken. I fold the fillings into a wheat wrap with a little shredded cheese and sauce then toast it as a pocket in my sandwich toaster press. I decided to do something a little different with this idea and set out to reimagine the classic cheeseburger.

Ingredients

2 lean quick-fry sandwich steaks such as sirloin
A large fresh tomato, cut into thin slices
1/2 a cup of shredded iceberg lettuce
1/2 a cup of shredded cheddar cheese
1/4 of a large white onion
2 large wheat wraps
Your desired sauce or relish. I used spicy mayonnaise and also yellow hotdog mustard but whatever you prefer will work.

Process

This is a dish that can be prepared in advance and heated up later in the day if you wish, and makes a good work lunchbox filler if you have means of heating it there.

I find it easier to have everything to hand once I am ready to assemble the wraps, so I will go over all of the preparation steps first. It should not take longer than 10 minutes before you can begin assembling them.

Trim any excess fat from the steaks and fry them for no more than two minutes either side on a medium to high heat with a little seasoning of your choice. Once done, set them to one side to cool. They should cool very quickly being so thin.

Thinly slice the onion and heat a teaspoon of sunflower oil in a saute pan over a low to medium heat. You could even use the same pan you cooked the steak in if it is a flat-bottomed pan. I used a griddle pan for my steak so that would not work for me. Saute the onions over a low heat and add some ground black pepper once they begin to turn translucent. Turn them over occasionally until they are soft and beginning to brown, but not charred, and remove from the heat to cool.

Note: My original recipe also added finely diced red and green bell peppers though I felt the taste was not quite right and omitted them this time. Previously, I also stirred in some of the yellow mustard as they cooled which worked quite well as long as they are cool enough to not burn the sugars in the mustard.

Also, as the onions slowly cook you can take this time to shred the lettuce and cheese and portion them out into small bowls for ease of access later. Also slice the tomato. It is best to avoid thick slices so the filling does not become too thick. You want around two to three slices per wrap but no more, unless you have really huge wraps to begin with. See the images accompanying the assembly instructions as a reference to the quantity of filling. If you over-stuff them they might rip as you fold them over so be mindful when measuring out these fillings. You may need to adjust my quantities up or down.

Now you can slice the steak. See the images below for reference. First, cut each steak in half across the width. (fig.1) Then slice along the length of each piece cutting down across the grain of the meat. Keep the slices very thin like matchsticks. (fig.2)

You can, if you wish, skip slicing the meat. I prefer to do this to avoid biting into the meat and pulling the whole filling out of the wrap pocket on your first bite. I find this way it makes for easier eating and avoids spillages.

At this point, if you are pre-preparing the ingredients to make wraps at a later time you can store them in clip-lock tubs in your fridge. I would suggest you not slice the tomato or shred the lettuce at this time and do those when you actually assemble the wraps. Or you could, as stated above, assembled them ahead of time and wrap them individually in clingfilm. They can keep in the fridge for around half a day but any longer and the juices from the tomato and onion will begin to soak into the wrap and they will start to turn soggy. Still, you can take them to work for lunch and heat them in a microwave, for example. Or even eat them cold if you wish.

Assembly

Now we assemble the wraps. As I have said above, it is important to not over-fill each wrap. As a guide, I suggest you imagine a line from the middle of the wrap to the edge as though you were measuring the radius. The inner half of this radius should contain the filling, any further than that and you will struggle to fold the wraps over. And stacking ingredients up too high will also bring the same issue, so try and keep the filling no higher than half an inch when pressed down.

First, spread a small amount grated cheese around the middle area and top it with lettuce. This is the base of your filling and a good guide to how far out you should stack the rest. Be sure to tuck the filling base around into a neat circle. Place the slices of tomato over the lettuce. As you can see below, I have also added a swirl of spicy mayonnaise.

Next, heap the sliced steak on top and press down firmly, but not so much that you push the salad base out to the sides. Again, keep the stack neat as this will help when folding the wraps over. Add a couple of teaspoons of the cooked onions and, again, press them down evenly over the steak. I have also added a swirl of mustard to the onions. I find their flavours work well together, especially when paired with beef. Finally, you can top this off with a little more cheese.

Now we fold the wrap into a pocket. I have taken pictures of each stage of the fold. In the end, you are looking to create a pentagonal shape.

First, fold one edge over into the middle and hold it in place. When you fold this side in, be careful you do not push the filling away from the middle. Next, take hold of the corner where the wrap has folded at the edge and bring it into the middle as well, as shown below.

Do the same again further round, making sure to not disturb the filling too much as you fold it over.

As you make the fourth fold, you should have the remaining end of the wrap form a shape that gradually narrows from the middle to the edge. Tuck the edge in until you get this shape. Finally, pull the remaining edge over into the middle carefully. Again, don’t be tempted to fold it too tightly as you could rip the wrap on the corners. If the filling has begun to tumble out onto that part of the wrap before you fold you can stand the wrap upright and shake the filling back down. You could also push it back into place with a spoon or fork before making the final fold.

Cooking these is simple, however, it is important that you place the wraps fold-side-down on the sandwich toaster. I recommend you place them on a low heat to avoid burning the wrap before the filling heats up fully. You do not need to use a sandwich toaster press either, as they can be baked on a medium heat in the middle of an oven. If you are adventurous you could even try to fry them in a skillet with a little oil or butter. Either way, remember to place them fold-side-down first to help the wrap seal into a pocket. You can also make other variations of this wrap such as chopped chicken breast, pulled pork or shredded beef, or even vegetable burgers. You could make them with smaller burger patties inside, pre-cooked and thoroughly drained to be sure the filling is not greasy. Go nuts and enjoy.

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2018/02/09/food-blog-steak-burger-wraps/feed/1So, I started streaming video games.http://vandeamon.com/2017/10/19/so-i-started-streaming-video-games/
http://vandeamon.com/2017/10/19/so-i-started-streaming-video-games/#commentsThu, 19 Oct 2017 11:23:29 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=372Read More]]>It’s been way too quiet here lately and I should blog a lot more so here is a little update on what I have been up to outside of the writing front. I have another half-finished blog about writing from a month ago I owe some time to, and will get round to finishing it. Meanwhile, I have been a little preoccupied with a new activity: streaming video games on Twitch.

Streaming games has been something on my mind for the last two years. I have been watching lets-plays on YouTube for around a decade, ever since I got bit by the Minecraft bug and played it non-stop when I was not at work. In the last three years, I have added watching live streams to my list of chosen entertainment and have found a batch of streamers who play games that I enjoy watching on a regular basis.

Before I go on, I should maybe explain the concept of streaming to those not familiar with it. Whereas YouTube is an ‘on demand’ system with pre-recorded videos that can be played back to the user, live streaming is exactly that: Live. Using software that can capture the video feed from a game, as well as other sources such as a webcam and internet browsers to same just a few, you can broadcast content from your computer over the internet for others to see live. In the case of video games, a broadcaster creates an account on a website that caters to this content, primarily Twitch.tv, pairs their broadcast software to that account and other people can visit their channel page and watch whatever they send out to the world.

In the last decade, both streaming and recording video game footage has become a successful entertainment medium and is now well considered as a means of ‘influence’ by game developers in much the same way as advertising in a magazine or on TV.

Some people stream games as a hobby, simply happy to have a community of people who watch them in their spare time and enjoy gaming moments together. Some even live stream as a means of assisting other people with gameplay by providing walkthroughs of tough games so other players can emulate their methods. Talk shows, both gaming and otherwise, have sprung up over the years as an evolution of the classic audio podcasting. Then there is a set of streamers who have been able to make a successful career out of streaming. Twitch has a partnership program with a subscription model that lets chosen broadcasters provide their viewers with the opportunity to show their support for a channel with a paid monthly subscription. In exchange, the broadcaster, who receives a percentage of the subscriptions from Twitch, can provide additional benefits to their community such as access to a back library of recorded content. They get sponsorships with companies like Intel and Razer, paid promotional offers from developers like Ubisoft and Electronic Arts and can also gain income from one of many crowdfunding means such as Patreon. Some even work out a line of merchandise like tshirts and mugs and sell them through retail front websites like Teespring.

I could go on about other specifics but I am sure by now you are getting the idea of how playing games can become a job for many people. This is what I want, too. I am new to streaming, and making a job out of it is not something that happens overnight. I need to build an audience, build a brand and build a community. And do all of that in the middle of an already saturated environment. As with everything, you get out of it what you put in.

A couple of months ago I started my first stream, after getting familiar with the streaming software, and had a myriad of tech issues that I patched up and moved on from. Shortly after, I sunk a personal investment, both time and financial, into new equipment. I started with a new webcam, as mine was not great. I played more with the broadcast software until I was familiar with it and began making graphics and overlays to use on the stream. Within the first two weeks, I bought a cheap green screen so I could have a transparent background filter for the webcam and block less of the gameplay screen with a view of my computer room’s wall behind me. And almost right after that, I purchased a professional condenser microphone with an extendable desk-mounted arm complete with shock mount and even a pop filter. I am already eying up a loop station to play soundbites as I stream (cue the Wilhelm scream!) and I recently purchased a control deck with customisable buttons to control my stream output and music from more easily than using a mouse and keyboard. That last purchase turned out to be, for the time being, pretty pointless as the software only works for Windows 10 and I am still on Windows 7. On that note, I am already building a list of current PC hardware so I can rebuild and update my gaming PC which will include an upgrade to Windows 10 anyway, so the control deck is sitting in a box for now. And I am not done there. I need a lighting rig with diffused box lights to even out the lighting on the green screen because otherwise, you get a kind of static effect where a shadow is cast. I will also be investing in a third and larger PC monitor and a triple-monitor mount to attach to my desk so I can have more streaming-related information on the peripheral screens. Finally, I will be looking in the future to having the stream handled by a second PC that captures the monitor feed from the gaming machine, which will make manipulating the streaming software and other production requirements easier on the whole.

Now, the big question anyone who is familiar with streaming will be asking themselves will likely be “Why spend all this money on equipment? It won’t help you be a better streamer, it’s all about your personality.” And they are quite right. None of what I have done until now will have helped me in any real way. I can throw money at this until the proverbial cows come home and it will not increase the size of my audience. That will take time and patience, with a lot of effort and cultivation of my community. So, why spend all this money on equipment? For my own benefit more than anything else. I feel more professional by having that better microphone. Not to mention that a headset with a boom mic is not comfortable to wear for long periods of time and would start to crush my ear after 2 hours. Now I am headphone-free and feel more comfortable to stream for 6 hours or longer. Also, that control deck is more a quality of life thing than anything else. Or it will be, at least, once I get onto Windows 10. And I am building a new PC because… well ok I would do this anyway since mine is getting on in years and does need an update sooner rather than later. This was hinted at recently when my old graphics card bit the dust, and now I have a new one that I cannot even get the most out of given the rest of the out-of-date hardware around it. Finally, I am a pragmatist. My intention is to make something of my stream no matter how long it takes. Sooner or later I would need to spend some money and effort on streaming kit. The question is, when do I do that? At what point in my streaming career do I say ‘OK, I made it this far and have lots of followers, now I am ready to buy a better microphone.’?

There really is no answer for that which applies across the board. It is different for everyone. Being a pragmatist, I reason that I would have to spend this eventually and I might as well get in on the ground floor right now. It kind of falls in line with another thing I want to talk about before I finish off here. And that is the following principal: Start as you mean to go on.

What does this mean? Quite simply, imagine how you would behave on stream, and what you would have as a streamer, once you ‘make it big’ and just start there already. As above, there is no magic number of viewers or barrier of success that needs to be breached before you should start doing things this way anyway. So, just start like that, and go on from there. While this may apply to my getting all this equipment early, it also applies to how I feel I should conduct myself on stream. Having watched streamers for the last few years, I notice that the great majority of those who have made their stream a success fall into one of three styles. Some have a gimmick and theme their streams along the lines of being a pirate, a Viking or a spaceman. There is even a streamer who is a Muppet-like hand puppet on camera, and the actual person is out of shot. There are also streamers who are hyper-energy types and all ‘pro-gamer’ in attitude, and I do not intend this to sound like a nitpick either. I watch a couple of them. And finally there are those with neither of these qualities and simply ‘be themselves’ on stream. Either way, they all interact with their community of viewers and are all entertaining to watch. They simply do not sit still and play a game while looking bored and saying nothing. They talk, they make fun of the game, they get angry (one I follow in particular has broken gamepads and keyboards in anger when a game frustrates him) and they joke around with their viewers or involve them in some way in the gameplay by asking them to make a decision for them or name characters after them in management-style games.

I knew at the start I would need to be entertaining and engaging, and I felt this would be easy. Watching people play games for the last decade in one form or another may have rubbed off on me as I have noticed I have had a growing tendency to talk out loud while playing games on my own. I commentate to no one in particular, mock things said on screen by the game’s characters, joke about something I did and so on. Yes, I know I am admitting to talking to myself and maybe someone should call the nuthouse and reserve me a nice room with a view. Either way, I felt I could carry this across into streaming without any difficulty. And again, even though I would likely have no audience to begin with, I felt it would be important to at least look like I am having fun and am an engaging person to watch. Otherwise, a viewer would load up my channel to see what I am like, see a bored and quiet guy sitting there playing a game in silence, then tune out quickly and be gone.

So, was it easy to just sit there and talk to the empty air for 4 hours at a time? Well, it was not. Not even close. I found that, despite already doing such a thing on my own, there was a mental block to doing so when other people might actually be watching. And then, strangely enough, I found there was an even bigger mental hurdle to leap when realizing that no one was watching at all. The first problem is simply an issue of confidence, the second was more puzzling to me at first. I am still not even sure why it would be difficult for me to talk while I play a game, given that I do that anyway. I did, however, figure out how to get around it and prevent it. One of the pieces of information a streamer has on their Twitch dashboard is the current viewer count which updates every few seconds or so. It is possible to hide this number simply by clicking on it. I felt that doing so would help me overcome the awareness of not being watched and let me settle into a more natural rhythm. And, yes it worked. Now, from the moment I fire up the stream to the end where I click the button to go offline, I have no idea how many people are watching me unless people chat to me in my channel’s text chat. Recently I have had some high volume days where I had four or five people chatting at one time, and my statistics page shows that for that broadcast I peaked at 13 viewers and maintained an average of 7 through the 6 hours I was online. This was quite good for me in just my second month of streaming. The very next day, no one was chatting in my stream, and no one was watching according to the post-stream statistics. Either way, I started the stream with a welcome message and talked about what I was going to do for the day, and I closed the stream out by thanking people for watching. I start as I mean to go on.

Now comes the inevitable shameless plug. I thought to put this at the beginning but it felt tacky so here is the link to my channel.

I have also changed my Twitter handle to match the brand, moving on from my old EVE Online personality.

So far I have enjoyed my streaming of games and plan to continue. I have even published a schedule on that page, with the intent to attempt to stick to it. After all, I am viewing this as a job now. Even if, at the moment, it is not paying a penny towards my monthly outgoings. So I intend to approach it like a job in the hopes that, one day, it will be a viable income source.

So far I have finished two games on stream and met several people who enjoyed what they saw. It felt really good to have people come back to my channel several times, and they were drawn to my channel by the game I chose to play. These games are around 4-5 years old now but even today people want to see someone play them their own way. Ironically, the current game I am playing has only been out for a week and the two times I have streamed it earlier this week I had no viewers watching me. To be honest, I expected this and knew it was likely to happen. This game was highly anticipated and, as a viewer of other channels myself, I know audiences tend to flock to their established favourites to watch them play it and are less likely to watch someone who is mostly unknown. I just played this game because I wanted to play it while it was new and was more for myself than anyone else. I still have a secondary game on my list and I alternate between them to provide a broader content base. And on future plans, I have some ideas for theme shows that might prove entertaining. Nothing drastic and I will certainly not be dressing up like a Viking. That is just not me and would be too forced, and if it feels that way to me it will come off that way on stream and ultimately not be very entertaining.

I may blog some more about this in the future, especially if I come across something I find really interesting. However, I do want to get back to writing as well. And finishing that half-written blog explaining the lack of content here so far on that front. Now I am settling into a routine again with streaming I hope it will provide me with some personal sense of structure and I can begin rationing my time for writing once again. And, who knows, I may even take my writing brainstorming onto stream every now and then if I gather a sufficient audience for it. We will see where things go and I will report back either way.

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2017/10/19/so-i-started-streaming-video-games/feed/1Writing Journal – Working on my Methodshttp://vandeamon.com/2017/07/07/writing-journal-working-on-my-methods/
http://vandeamon.com/2017/07/07/writing-journal-working-on-my-methods/#respondFri, 07 Jul 2017 13:36:30 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=361Read More]]>Over the many years I have been writing short stories, back before I even began writing fan fiction for EVE Online – though that was a starting point for more regular writing activity itself – I found I would always stick to a specific method of planning and fleshing out my works. I was not aware at the time, though I had a strange kind of determination to make the system work even when I should have seen it was clearly not. Well OK, to tell the truth, I suppose it was not all that bad. I do remember, a long way back, being able to rattle off large sections of a story at a time before the weight of the system pushed my productivity way down. Maybe having an eager mind full to bursting with ideas had much to do with breaking through the wall. But I am getting ahead of myself and should talk more about the system I stuck to for so long. The system that eventually burned me out for several years.

The first time I began writing longer stories, (as in, more than two pages), I would sit down and write out a detailed note-form of how the story would flow. And when I say ‘detailed’ I do mean down to the specifics. After all, there is nothing wrong with writing to some form of plan to keep you on track. I, however, would take this to another and entirely unnecessary level. I would add in what my character would say, who they talk to, what the place looks like, the sounds in the background, all kinds of stuff that could always stay in my head and flow out as needed when I get to writing actual paragraphs. This plan would usually end up almost a quarter or even a third of the final story length on its own. I would type almost anything I felt, at the time of plotting, would help the story come together when I got down to actually writing the main draft. Looking back I guess I felt this was more a mix of planning and brainstorming all rolled into one. And I would write down anything that sprang to mind there and then out of a fear of losing it later and forgetting to add it back in.

Once this plan was done I would read it through and ensure it all made some sense, sort of like proofreading the outline. (Yes I made a lot of work for myself back then). I would then set the font to grey text and begin writing, following the outline and turning what was a five line paragraph into ten or more, then delete the relevant chunks of the old plan as I go. In the end, I would have a full story I can then proofread and edit as required. And on occasion, as I followed the plan, I would make changes and deviate or rewrite a line in some way that adds something new. And here is where the system became more of a problem, as my stories progressed and became more complicated. If I felt I should change an entire series of events because I had a totally different idea, I would have two choices to make. I can either make the change, which required me to go back over the outline and rewrite everything that has changed, or I would somehow talk myself out of making the large change instead. The former choice came with the obviously added workload battling against my desire to just move on and keep writing, like the outline was a hurdle suddenly in the way between myself and the finish line. And the latter is… well, it is something I have come to realise no self-styled aspirant writer should contemplate doing. At least, not for that reason.

Sad to say that I have done this on occasion if only to avoid the strain of needing to change so much later in the plan and, in some cases, change what I have already written up to this point to provide a better lead-in. At the time I shrugged these choices off, whichever one I made, as just being a part of writing. I convinced myself this is ‘how it is done’, and all part of the process that I was sure many writers go through. I did not question it because it was, at least from my point of view at that time, working for me as a system. And then I hit the burnout.

During this phase, I would begin my outline, get part way through, and then give in for a week or two at a time. Coming back to my half-completed document after one or two weeks away felt more of a chore. I needed to get back up to speed on where I was. I re-read what I wrote previously. I don’t like it. I change a few things before moving along and, another couple of paragraphs in, my creativity and drive were spent again and would put it down. Eventually, I would force myself to get a move on and finish the outline, though I did not enjoy this as much as it felt more and more like hard work. ‘Am I not enjoying writing anymore?’ I would ask myself. Maybe it was the story itself, even though I was working to what I felt was the final wrap up of the fanfic’s major story arc, and I was eager to see it finally done. Completing a creative thing was rare for me and I wanted it done more for that feeling of accomplishment than just being done with it and finally putting it down. I wrote the last three parts of the series during this period of burnout and felt accomplished at the end. And all the way through I stuck to this same system, knowing it was a problem, and never thinking of how it could be done differently.

Even then the last three stories took a long time to get out and, after that, I did very little writing going forward. I was exhausted by the very practice I had adopted for myself. Though I had many plans for many stories, and they now sit on my hard drive untouched and unloved. When I got back to dabbling with them I still persisted in working to my old system of planning. Recently my motivation to write refreshed and I started this website with a desire to write something original. And, yes, you guessed it. I reverted to the old system once more and began half-writing the story in plan form before actually writing it. And it did not take long before the burnout was creeping back.

This revelation finally hit when I discussed this system with my friend, Shai, sometime last year and she was very confused why I did things this way. She suggested that, if I was finding this system restrictive and demotivating, I adopt a more organic writing style. All that creative energy being wasted on planning when it could burst out as fully formed content when it strikes you mid-flow. So I gave it a go.

I have, over the last few months, found this to be much better for my current writing process. I can be spontaneous and flexible at the same time without the dread of making such changes and the impact on work I have already done. I am also finding I do not fatigue as quickly when doing a long writing session. Maybe because I have not already half-written the story only to write it out in full later. As something comes to mind I can add it in.

This is still very much a learning process for me. I have gone through various means of tracking the plot up to now, some of which I went over in my previous blog where I discussed some of my experiments in worldbuilding. Keeping a cast list and making fact sheets for settings, considering the themes of naming and so on. All of this, of course, helps with plotting the overall final story. Beyond that, I am finding ways of keeping track of stories while keeping my outlines brief in comparison to my previous methods. I have found it helps to keep plot points to a couple of lines overall and, instead of expanding on the details there and then, I let questions linger about the specifics and note those down instead.

‘Why does his boss not tell him about that?’

‘Is this more important to her over her duty to the state?’

‘What would happen if this safe house was no longer safe?’

So far I don’t always act on all of these questions, and some of them become irrelevant over time as the plot advances. I have found it oddly liberating to simply delete something I have not used where before I felt like I had somehow failed to not include something in my plot. The same goes for coming up with something new while actively writing, and turning to my note sheet to jot down a question that has come up instead of trying to answer it there and then. Something to chew on later and look for a chance to answer. Currently, with my Ferum Republic story plan, I have questions that have arisen in both planning and writing that even I do not know the answers to. It is kind of exciting, really. Not only do I get to tell the story as I go, I also get to find out what is happening in this world as the story unfolds.

I kind of like this new way of writing. I do not dread picking up my unfinished works and poking and prodding them some more. I am still finding motivation a little bit of a struggle, but that is more now an issue of self over an issue of structure. When I do write, I feel more creative and less constrained. And that is a good thing for getting my writing groove back.

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2017/07/07/writing-journal-working-on-my-methods/feed/0Writing Journal – World Buildinghttp://vandeamon.com/2017/06/11/writing-journal-world-building/
http://vandeamon.com/2017/06/11/writing-journal-world-building/#commentsSun, 11 Jun 2017 16:11:39 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=343Read More]]>Sometime last year I began working on the setting for my Ferum Republic story and quickly saw a lot of potential for an expansive setting. As a result, my mind turned more to the subject of world building theory than it has done before for any writing project. When I wrote character stories for EVE Online I was working within someone else’s setting. It was pre-built and ready to use. All I needed to do was to shape a character to fit into it, and come up with a story that uses those pre-existing elements in the world. I am not going to say this was an easy thing to do, because it presents it own challenges none the less. But there is nothing quite like building your own world from scratch. I find something deeply satisfying to come up with a basic idea and then start fleshing it out. You find yourself collecting little ideas as you work on the bigger ones, putting them to one side thinking they will go nowhere, only to have an idea at night while lying in bed that blows that small scrap of an idea up into something large and awesome.

It all starts somewhere, of course, and grows out of something small like a seed. I had intended this blog to be about that process of inventing the starting point, but I could not think how best to present it. And to be honest, that is is not what world building is about to begin with. Ultimately, it is on you to find your starting point and inspirations. I have yet to find a ‘How To’ guide on that subject. World building is about how you grow your setting, and keep track of it. The kinds of things you need to think about as you add more to the world you are creating such as the social structures, family bonds, industrial or economic factors, religions, even the political relationships between different countries. At least, if required for your story. Not all of this is needed information and might not matter at all to your story. There is no need to plot out the entire government of the country if they will never feature at all in your story about a school trip in a fantasy kingdom.

I decided to collect some thoughts I have had while writing the setting for Ferum, as well as sharing some revelations I have had on the subject of world building. I still have to read the book I bought from cover to cover, though I have dipped into different sections and found some of it quite useful. As I continue fleshing out Ferum, and other story settings in the future, I may keep a running journal of my thoughts on the subject of world building, too.

Mapping Out History

Mapping out the history that leads up the beginning of the story can be important when it comes to comprehending how to move forwards. This does not need to be a complete historical volume of the nations of the world, stretching back several hundred years. It could also be the life of the main characters up to the start of the story, giving you a good springboard into the starting scenes. Having a historical reference can also help with future plot elements for any part of your setting, or giving you good ideas for character arcs. You might also get ideas for new storylines that emerge from the history of the setting. Was there an old resistance movement that is growing in popularity again on a political platform? Did one of the characters make a mess of something a decade ago, and didn’t know he has pissed off an underworld crime lord with powerful political connections?

I have found with my current writing that knowing more of the history has given me some fresh ideas to work into the world and has really helped me fill in a particular blank portion of the story plan. Even if it doesn’t give you something huge to play with, you will know enough about the world that your characters inhabit and can make them feel a part of it instead of just being in it instead.

Mapping Out The World

In line with the idea of planning the history of the story setting or characters, I find it helps a lot to have a map of the story world for very similar reasons. In fact, depending on the story at least, it can be as important when it comes to knowing the history of the world. Geopolitical boundaries, and how they have moved over the years due to wars are of great importance to my Ferum Republic story plan. Having a visual map to see where those borders are has helped me put parts of the story together. I can see parts of the world where border disputes can cause friction with neighbours. And, more importantly, why that friction is present. I cannot be as simple as ‘They want that land!’ so they will fight over it. You need to know why and the lay of the land can be a factor in finding that answer.

And, again, it doesn’t need to be so huge if that does not suit the specifics of a story. It could be as little as a town map showing the area where your story takes place. Or even a floor plan for an important location. None of this needs to translate specifically into the narrative, as that can become dull and overly detailed. But having a good idea of the lay of the land has, at least for me, helped me get over the hump of picturing a scene so I can write it better.

Mythology And Religion

Again, this is something that may not feature in all stories depending on the setting and the theme. Or even be something strictly religion or mythology based, as it could also apply to oddities in the world such as vague mysticism or paranormal activity. Either way, something along these lines will likely exist in the world setting in some form and it should always beg the question: “What is it and will it add something to my story?” The answer may be a firm “No” which is fine, too. So don’t worry about writing the entire religious texts for a whole society if you’re never going to use even just 10% of it in your works. Conversely, don’t worry about obsessing over this level of detail should the answer to that question be a “Yes” either. Even if, again, you will only feature a small portion of it in the story. Wider context will be easier to work with. And as with the above points, they can all serve to provide good plot hooks and new story arcs based along these lines.

Again, with my Ferum story, I stumbled into the idea of a religion based on angelic guardians of mankind and had little idea at that point how they might feature in my ongoing plot. I have, since that incidental mention of this religion in the first part of the story, written a whole bunch more notes on the structure of the church of this religion and the figures within it. Namely the Seraphym themselves and what they stand for within their pantheon. If only to give myself that wider context I sought to move forward with them as a background feature. And now I am finding I will be thrusting them right into the centre of the plot with a whole story arc encompassing not just the religion itself but its hidden depths and lost histories. If anything.

With all this said, it is also good to embrace the idea of there being no religion at all in your setting and the reasons for this. Was there a religion in the past? Or, has there never been anything like a religion in this world? What do the people put their belief in without it? Did religion just become obsolete in their society and, if so, why? Again, these are all questions you owe yourself answers to as even the absence of a thing should be questioned as much as its presence would be.

“Hello, my name is…”

Naming things in the world is something I enjoy very much. Though I know, for some, this is often a nightmare. Especially when constructing unique names not rooted in our own cultures. It is hard to be creative in this way, though I personally enjoy the challenge and feel I have a good way to handle it. Not that I can come up with names on the fly, and I frequently end up staring at the screen and making odd noises out loud to myself as I mangle existing words and try to knot them together into something new that does not sound too silly. Either way having a system can help, and sticking to some principles that root the names of people and places to your story setting can be invaluable. Or at least it is to me. I find sticking to a theme of sounds and naming structure for a social setting can help lead my thinking when I need a new name for a new character or location. And it is OK to borrow these from our own real world setting. Sounds and constructs that lend a good flavour to your naming pool that you can further modify to your own tastes in small ways.

Let me move on to some specifics though, as it is easier to simply waffle out these ideas than it is to put them into practice. Let’s say I am writing a story and I have been leaning a little on Greek culture for inspiration. I may as well grab some names from that too and work them into my story. A name generator with a lot of features can be useful here so if you want to follow along then go ahead and load this site I am using and browse to the Real Names – Hellanic section and see what it gives you that you like. I am just ground to grab a name at random here for a female character:

Thimaea

We have our basic starting point. Of course, you could stick to it should this name appeal to you as it is. Or you could modify it a little while trying to keep the overall sound. Change a single syllable’s sound, or remove one. Swap a letter for a different one or add another. Some examples:

Thimarea – Added the R after the first A. This rolls off the tongue a little better.

Themaea – Changed the I to an E. Sounds similar when spoken aloud but slightly different.

Simaea – Entirely different after changing the Th to an S. I don’t feel this one fits the theme, though and suddenly sounds a little more Middle-Eastern.

Anyway, you get the idea. Of course, you can make more than one change, lengthen the name, even grab another from the list and try to stick them together. Either way, it helps to try and stick to similar names within the cultural identities in your story, if at all relevant. And if not then overall it will help make the world feel more put together and consistent if you try and make the names fit the setting. I have recently read a series of books where I felt this principle was not applied and, while the story was still great, I felt the names had been plucked entirely out of thin air and the author just made some random sounds before putting them into his cast list. It didn’t spoil the story for me as such, though the names still felt out of place in the rest of the world setting as nothing reinforced anything else.

Another tip I can share with you, especially if you struggle to make names on the fly while writing, is you should dedicate a little time when not writing your story to make a list of names you can grab from at a later date when needed. This is something that was featured in a roleplay system called Apocalypse World. The Game Master tool set came with a list of names you can grab from in a hurry if needed. They were themed along similar lines and the list served to prevent a slowdown in the active narrative of the game. This can apply to writing, too. You may be mid-flow and on a roll, typing up a storm, and then find your characters needing to be told a name. “You should speak to someone who knows more about that artefact. There’s an archaeologist at the University in…” Aw hell, I have to name something! Panic! And then twenty minutes go by before you get a town name you like and your flow is gone. The alternative being you simply put something like ‘TOWN 1’ there instead, and every other instance of that town’s name coming up, and add a comment or annotation to the document file stating the need to come up with a name later so you don’t lose it. And then you have to backtrack again in the future to edit it once you have an idea, but you have to set time aside anyway later to invent the name and blergh!

So, when you find yourself with a little spare time, you should brainstorm a few lists. Male and female names. Town/city names. Countries. And so on. Whatever you find you might need or have trouble coming up with on the fly. It doesn’t have to be epic or anything. Twenty or so names for each will do in total. And you don’t need to dedicate a whole afternoon to this or have the name generator site close to hand. Make notes on your phone using a notepad app while you are out and about. Look at street signs, mangle those words. Look at business names on buildings, chop that up and stitch it together again in a different order. Or several of them to make a kind of Frankenword! Out for dinner? What’s on the menu… chew the word up and blerf it out into something new. When you get home, add it to your master list for future use.

Organisations And Structures

Depending on your story, there will be a need at some level to make a chart or spreadsheet of some kind that maps out an organisation or a family tree, just to keep it all straight in your head and give you a good reference point to work from in the future. I have recently found a need for this while writing my Ferum arc. Sometimes this is a simple prospect such as knowing who is related to who and in what way. Other time it will be much deeper and you may even need to do some wider research in the process. An example relevant to my current writing would be the military organisation of the Ferum Army and the chains of command within. I have personally never been too knowledgeable about this, and my need to become better versed in the subject highlighted how important a chart would be for this. As I started it soon became a more complicated affair. Suddenly I had questions to answer such as, how large is a regiment? What exactly is the difference between that and a brigade? How many companies would this hold, and of how many soldiers? How many men would a general typically command?

It might seem like obsessive detailing, but again it will all help me as the writer to realise the world to a better degree and make it feel more real. And in this case, the details will come out in the story in some form, and accuracy of information will help. However, I will not lie, I have found the research for this to be difficult. And I am no good at making charts. This is all something I will need to work on going forward.

Cast Sheets

Similar to the above subject, I have begin to adopt a better system of tracking the cast of my story. Before, I relied on a mega list document in which I listed all the character names by social grouping and some details about them. This has worked… well, OK it has not been great. I simply stuck to it as it was a system I knew instead of a system that worked well. I have slowly moved away from this in some small part. Sure I keep a large cast list, broken down into common circles that make sense for the story such as by country, then by organisation and such. What has changed in my handling of this information is extracting extra details and making a dedicated cast sheet for central characters. I keep more information there such as their social circles, key notes for plot arcs, family ties, list of enemies and allies, and so on.

Most of the time I find I use the mega list as a kind of directory. Reminding myself of that minor character name and how to spell it. I have no need to make a detailed sheet for everyone in the story, as most will not even have much that needs fleshing out. For example, Prince Jerriah is escorting his dearly betrothed, Lady Khallia, from the port to the castle when the local cheese merchant complimented her beautiful auburn hair. She is so flattered by this she rewards the merchant with a kiss on the cheek. Prince Jerriah takes the event in his stride with outward grace, but inside he seethes with jealousy and marks this upstart merchant’s face in his mind. One day he might be able to teach him a lesson for such effrontery to his future King. That kind of thing. So the merchant gets a name (or not which is also fine) and is placed on the cast directory. Then he is added to Prince Jerriah and Lady Khallia’s sheets as someone they know, how they know them and what they feel about them.

The merchant doesn’t need a whole sheet just for himself, then then a sheet for the people he employs, people he trades with and so on. It could be never ending if you go that far. It is enough that minor characters be mentioned as a relation of some kind on a main character’s details sheets where they are relevant, and use that main character (or multiple characters) as the go-to point of reference when looking up any info on that minor character, if any at all. After all, it is nearly always going to be the case that the subject of the local cheese merchant will only be brought up in the future in a scene with Prince Jerriah and/or Lady Khallia. The Prince is out riding one afternoon, for example, some way from the city where he sees a carriage with a broken wheel and the same merchant trying to fix it. Or the Lady is back at the market the next week and the merchant is setting up a stall with his new stock, though she barely remembers him from the previous week at the docks as it is. He is just a commoner, after all.

So far I have found this means of tracking character information to be much more useful than a huge list of names and details, which I barely used anyway in previous writing projects now I think about it. I find I am referring to these types of sheets much more regularly when needing a refresher of who is who

And there it is. My current thoughts on world building methods. I hope some of this gives other people some different insights. And please feel free to leave comments below if you want to add something, or share your own thoughts and systems if you feel you have something that works for you.

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2017/06/11/writing-journal-world-building/feed/1Food Blog – Porchettahttp://vandeamon.com/2017/04/09/food-blog-porchetta/
http://vandeamon.com/2017/04/09/food-blog-porchetta/#respondSun, 09 Apr 2017 14:06:52 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=315Read More]]>Over Christmas and the New Year I visited a good friend in Canada. I came away with a cookbook as a Christmas gift. Once I got home I began marking down some recipes I wish to try out. I have tried two of them already this year, and the porchetta marks the third on my list. A porchetta is an Italian style rolled pork roast with crackling and is popular in various regions of North America. It is made with a liberal amount of herbs such as rosemary and sage, as well as having garlic included in the rub. There may be regional variations too, though I decided to stick with a classic basic to get the technique down.

Normally I do not make roast meats as I am usually cooking for one. And large chunks of meat will often go to waste before I use them fully. Also, pork is not something I eat much of overall outside of making a stirfry, and there I have had little success making the most of it without drying the meat. Either way, I cannot resist the idea of making my own pork with crackling. So I picked out a small roasting loin, bought some herbs and garlic, and also grabbed some bread rolls for leftover sandwiches.

You will also need some butcher’s string to tie the joint up after rolling, and a roasting tray with a rack that fits inside for cooking.

Afterthought: I may try this again with 2 tsp of dried yellow mustard powder and lemon juice added to the rub mixture.

Process

Cut the skin and underlayer of fat away from the meat, do not throw this out. Slice into the skin along the length with a very sharp knife, or a box cutter if you have one. Do not cut all the way through, you only want a shallow slice to get down beneath the skin layer itself. Lay it to one side, we will come back to it soon.

Butterfly the pork loin. Ideally, you will want the meat to be around half an inch thick.

In a bowl, combine all of the other ingredients and mix them together well.

Rub the pork meat on both sides with the garlic herb oil mixture, saving a little to one side.

Roll the loin up then wrap it with the skin you saved from step one. It likely will not wrap all the way around the roll, which is actually what we want anyway. Take some butcher’s string and tie the roll up tight at each end, and then in the middle if needed. Clip off any excess string at the knot.

Take the remaining marinade and work it into the skin, coating it evenly.

Wrap the loin roll in clingfilm and place in the fridge to rest, preferably for 24 hours, although this can be done for a minimum of 2 hours before cooking. If left overnight, turn it over occasionally to let the oil work its way around the meat.

To cook, pre-heat your oven to 190c (375f or gas mark 5). Unwrap the loin and place it on a rack in your roasting tray, skin side up. Cook in the centre of the oven for 45 minutes to 1 hour.

Remove from the oven and let it rest on a chopping board under foil for 15 minutes. Cut the string and lift off the skin. You can chop it up and return it to the oven on the rack to make really good crackling to serve with your meal, or eat later as a snack if you wish.

Pork roll ready for roasting

Roasted and resting

Served with mashed potato, carrots and green beans with a pork gravy.

Pork scratchings made from double-baking the skin.

As I said in the introduction above, I don’t roast meats often and I do not cook much with pork. Where I have, I have overcooked it and dried out the meat. As such I was paranoid I would do the same with this roast, and felt I was leaving it in too long. I also worried that I would take it out too early and it would be undercooked in the middle. I was working off adjusted cooking times, as well as quantities of marinade, as many recipes would call for a larger portion of pork than I had bought. Certainly, the portion I used would struggle to feed more than three people or two very hungry people. Combine that with my lack of experience in roasting meat and there is potential for disappointment and raw food.

As it turns out, the roast came out well and the meat was still juicy and succulent. Of course, this is helped by wrapping the loin roll in the skin and fat, which will baste the meat as the fat seeps through. Also, the olive oil in the marinade likely helped keep it moist through the cooking process. I had the joint in the oven for a little over an hour, though fan assisted ovens would likely do the job a little quicker. As such I suggest people keep an eye on their roast after 40 minutes. Also, don’t forget to rotate the roast half way through if, like my own, your oven is not fan assisted. This will help with more even cooking essential to the crackling.

Once the roast was done I placed it on a cutting board and topped it with foil to rest for 15 mins before doing anything else. This was a good time to begin working on the sides such as the veg and mashed potato. I also removed the string and took the fat layer off, as I could see it had not crisped like I thought it would underneath, where it had contact with the meat. The fat was still very rubbery and, personally, I do not find that appetizing. I sliced the crackling into strips and then further chopped those strips in half before putting them back in the oven on the rack. I baked them at 170c for around 30 mins, continually checking them to be sure they did not burn. I turned them over half way and in the end, I was rewarded with a nice bowl of scratchings. OK, it’s not healthy as such but it’s fine if you don’t have them every day. And at least this way you can control how much salt is added to them, unlike pre-packaged scratching from the store.

I was quite pleased overall with how this turned out and I can see myself making this in the future. Having the dried herbs in jars, and pre-minced garlic on standby makes for less waste overall and they are there to be used when needed. So I could easily buy another roast on the spur of the moment when food shopping and not worry too much about having everything to hand when I get home. And, as with all things, practice makes perfect. As I said in the ingredients list above, next time I may try variations of this and rub some mustard powder into the mix as well. And this can always be adapted to serve other forms of cooking such as Chinese BBQ pork or Jamaican jerk.

A few specks of light rain peppered his cheeks as the clouds above him groaned with the sound of building thunder. General Belethor Vorn pressed onward, keeping low as the occasional bullet hissed overhead as it strayed close. Either side, his men followed suit and pushed onward up the slope, seeking the advantage of a better line of sight as they advanced towards the source of the gunfire. The shelter of the tree line, and their forward siege bastion, lay behind them as they pressed on through the initial rocky and uneven land. The terrain beyond was mostly flat, save for the occasional shallow rise here and there between them and their target. Outcrops of rock bordered what had become a no-man’s-land, with the intimidating presence of the castle ahead. A soldier just ahead to his left slipped as a bullet impact struck the rocks close to him. Vorn altered direction slightly as he pushed onward, his breath now sounding heavy in his chest as grabbed hold of the soldier’s elbow and hauled the man back to his feet.

“Keep moving, soldier,” said Vorn. “Get to the top.” The soldier gave a short nod of thanks or acknowledgement. He was not sure which. Vorn followed the rest of the team up the hill.

“General,” came a voice just behind him. He ducked lower as he paused in his advance and turned to his adjutant lieutenant. He was pointing toward the castle… no, towards the ranks of troops in open field. His troops.

“What the hells are they playing at, getting in that deep?” He gestured for his lieutenant, a man named Olveri Ferraman, to come closer as he laid low, though they were still out of effective range of their rifles. Ferraman dropped beside him, his back turned presenting his backpack vox radio. Ferraman wore a headset and microphone on a boom attached the radio in the pack. The back of the pack held a second microphone receiver handset that could be used by a second person. Vorn unbuckled the handset and brought it to his ear, pushing the stud on the side that activated the device. Ferraman had already selected the short range frequency his regiment was using.

“Vorn to all companies, do not advance beyond the line of skirmish.” There was no reply. “I repeat, this is General Vorn. You’re pushing too deep. All companies return to skirmish line.” A crackle of static filled the speaker pressed to his ear which carried fragments of words. The thunder rolled overhead again, making the static worse briefly.

“Rot it all,” cursed Vorn as he strapped the handpiece back to the pack.

“Interference from the weather, sir,” said Ferraman. “It comes and goes.” Vorn grimaced and pushed himself back to his feet, cursing the misfortune this siege had faced up until now. He soon reached the top of the rise, his men spread out along the rocks and rubble. They were taking steady aimed shots toward the enemy dugout along the castle wall. He looked along the advancing line of men in the field as they boldly pushed forward, heedless of his instructions. Their officers likely emboldened by the apparent diminished resistance from the castle defences. Gunfire from the dugouts was almost half as intense in this push as it was in the last push yesterday afternoon. They had inflicted a heavy toll, though their own casualties were substantial. Not to mention an accident, caused by mishandling of a powder keg in their first assault yesterday morning, inflicting large casualties among the artillery crews and damaging most of their howitzer cannons. An entire sixteen piece battalion of artillery had been out of commission before they could bring the full force of it to bear.

General Vorn squinted as the wind built a little and whipped the red horsehair plumage of his silver and bronze helmet around. He surveyed the field ahead and the enemy disposition. A rumbling built to their right, a different kind than from the thunder overhead, as Vorn’s landships had circled back around again. Clad in heavy iron and a short barreled rotating cannon turret on top, they belched steam and smoke from their boilers as they entered the field. Their efforts co-ordinated with the horseback cavalry on the left flank. Ferum soldiers riding fully armoured warhorses, and armed with gas propelled grenade launchers, began their harrying raids at the other side of the field. The launchers they carried fired a small timed-fuse grenade designed to stick to enemy tanks. The horses were more maneuverable than the enemy landships of the Delphari State, and proved to be an effective strategy throughout the siege. The Ferum landships’ cannons thundered one after the other as they drove into the field on their treaded tracks, each one wheeling away after hitting their target, or as close as they could get to it. An older design, they were more like mobile mortars and less accurate due to the shortness of the barrel. Either way they served to punish the line of dugouts along the base of the castle wall, keeping enemy troops heads down as the cavalry charged in close from the other side of the field. The two remaining Delphari landships along the dugout line turned to bring their guns to bear on the Ferum landships. The other two at the gate further to the left did not and, instead, turned to face the charging cavalry. In the last assault yesterday morning, Vorn had employed this tactic to great effect. The Delphari’s newer landships favoured accuracy with their longer barrels. This came at a cost of the barrel being fixed to the superstructure of the tank, meaning the driver also had to aim the cannon for the gunner. Also the lack of a rifle attachment to deal with close in troops, like their own tanks, made them easy prey for his cavalry grenadiers. When they turned their attention to the Ferum landships, they left themselves exposed to a charge on horseback. The end result being the Delphari had lost the majority of their landships guarding the walls either side of the castle. For every two or three they had removed from the field, however, Vorn’s forces had lost one.

The troops in the field surged forward, taking advantage of the momentarily reduced fire from the dugouts. Along the walls of the castle, the occasional muzzle flash of a rifle answered their advance. Vorn was angry at his field officers for disregarding their plan, eager for glory in battle. Though he had to admit they had wounded the Delphari more than they had realized. This could be the moment they breach the gate, and the cavalry seemed set to clear the way with ease.

“Fine,” he said to himself as he withdrew his pistol from the underarm holster strapped over his breastplate. He pulled the bolt back to chamber a round from the magazine. “Prepare to push forward!” His soldiers lifted themselves off the ground at the order. To his side, Ferraman was holding his headset close to his ear while adjusting the frequency with his other free hand, searching for a clear signal. Vorn followed his men down the slope as the landships to their right flank opened up with a second barrage. Several shells struck in and around the dugouts. His squad came onto level ground, clear of the rocky terrain, and redoubled their efforts to gain ground behind their advancing force already halfway across the open field. The Delphari landships answered the Ferum as the two along the wall took a shot each. One flew a little wide of the target, landing in the space between the two and kicked up a blast of wet earth. The other struck the flank of one of the Ferum landship as it began its turn away from the castle. The side of the armoured tank was rocked by a powerful explosion.

The Ferum landship quickly ground to a halt as the left track jammed. The tank let out a hiss as steam gushed from somewhere between the large central wheel and the body itself. Vorn heard a heavy clunk echo from within the tank’s body, even over the sounds of his own men’s rifles, and the landship wheeled further around to the left as the gearing on the track seized. The hatch on the top of the turret flew open and a crewman hauled himself out in a panic as the terrible sounding groan of metal giving way rose from deep within the iron behemoth. He cleared the hatch and turned to reached back down inside, then pulled away with a scream as a bellowing cloud of steam enveloped the vehicle. The crewman flung himself clear as the boiler exploded and rolled along the floor. A group of nearby soldiers bringing up the rear scrambled for cover as the boiler blew a second later. The blast sent thick black smoke and steam up into the air as the landship split open at the rear. A section of track split as a wheel broke off and was hurled to the side, tumbling along the ground. The cloud of steam drifted with the building wind and dissipated quickly, replaced by thick black smoke as a fire built in the hulled out belly of the dead landship, hungrily devouring it.

“I have a report from the 14th!” Ferraman shouted over the rising sound of gunfire. The 14th Regiment, known as the ‘Great Dukes’, were under the command Lieutenant Colonel Harran Methios and were tasked with assaulting the opposite side of the castle wall alongside the 47th ‘Red Tails’ Regiment under Lieutenant Colonel Riktor Arnecastle. “Four of his landships are still in the fight, three pulled back for repairs and two destroyed.” Vorn grimaced at the news. He only had five left on his front as it was, two of the stubborn beasts reportedly broken down as their assault began and barely made it out of the staging point. It would have to be enough. Vorn glanced to the left flank as they pressed forward in the wake of the charging forward units. The landships by the gate had pulled out to intercept the cavalry charge. It was a futile gesture as their fixed cannons thundered in an attempt to scatter their enemy. His riders were too disciplined to be intimidated, too well trained to let a slow and cumbersome tank line up the perfect shot. The horses were trained for war and used to explosions and gunshot, and not easily spooked. The distance closed quickly. And there was smoke rising in the distance… Vorn noticed them smoke rising from what seemed to be behind the walls of the castle, close to the main gate. Or was it behind? He was unable to tell from his vantage point in the field.

The hiss of a passing bullet, then another drove Vorn and his team back to the ground. The dugout gunners had recovered little enough courage to take snapshots over the earthworks. Vorn’s troops, and those further into the field, took prone firing positions and returned fire with neat discipline. Somewhere ahead he saw several of his own men, to slow to react to the danger, drop limp to the ground before the next Ferum landship barrage opened up and drove the Delphari soldiers behind cover once more. They were, again, answered by return fire from the reloaded Delphari tanks, each one landing a close shot but ultimately his landships were spared any damage. Vorn returned to his crouching run along with his men and noticed a large smoking crater had been torn in the trench wall. Delphari troops were scattering from the destruction and at least two were struck by fire from the forward Ferum line. An explosion near the gate signaled the destruction of one of the Delphari landships. A large cloud of steam blew upward from the centre of the blast. The cavalry riders were circling back around to the rear of the last remaining landship by the gate, which struggled to turn to meet them. It was all but a forgone conclusion now. The sound of gunfire intensified ahead of them. Panic fire from the enemy?

“Down!” Came the command from the sergeant, his voice panicked and urgent. Vorn barely had time to look around before he felt something heavy slam into him from his right. He crashed to the damp, lumpy ground and felt the air rush from his lungs. “Stay down!” Came another shout as the sound of gunfire increased. The heavy weight rolled off him and Vorn recognised it as one of his soldiers. A corporal… named Yougen, he thought. The corporal gave him a quick nod, checking his commander was unharmed as a wave of bullet impacts stitched their way across the grass behind them.

“Gatling guns, sir!” said the corporal. The impacts moved further away. Vorn lifted up a little and looked around. His team were prone, a couple of them riddled with multiple bullet impacts. Their uniforms were soaked in crimson. Ahead of them he saw his soldiers in a panic, scattering out along the field or simply ducking for cover as lines of glowing hot bullets ripped through their ranks. Men fell to the ground, alive, dead and badly wounded alike. As the wave of bullets passed on some took firing positions and emptied their magazines up to the walls of the castle. Vorn followed their aim and saw several gatling guns set up along the wall.

Where… Vorn saw more men cut down as they tried to form a firing line in retaliation. Others gave to flight and began to pull back, their captains attempting to form some kind of order. The ones not dead, at least. Vorn rose up to a knee and turned toward the gate. The remaining Delphari landship was still unharmed and turned toward the field, pulling further away from the main gates. Dead bodies and horses alike were scattered around the ground close to it. Bullet impacts spread through the remaining cavalry who were racing away in an attempt to get clear of the wall. Everyone was too deep in range of the gatling guns. More cavalry riders fell from their mounts by the second as the deadly hail of fire disgorged from the battlements. The main gate was drawn open quickly and a Delphari landship emerged. Then another, and another right behind it. More pulled through the gate, every other one turning around to head behind the castle walls into the field of battle on the other side. The rest began to spread out into the field, between the advancing Ferum lines and the Delphari trenches and formed a wide firing line as the Ferum landships began their turn back to firing range.

They would have no chance, thought Vorn grimly.

“Fall back to the treeline!” Shouted Vorn. His men started pulling themselves off the ground and turned to run for the rocky ground and the trees beyond. He did a quick count of the enemy landships before turning with them.

Three new, up to six now.

And still, they rolled out. Vorn spat a curse as he turned back and ran back the way they came. Ferraman ran alongside, keeping low as lines of bullets strafed the field around them. Behind them, Ferum troops were cut down like so much wheat as the gun emplacements scythed through them. Others made a panicked retreat, desperate to get out of range of the gatling guns. The Delphari landships now on the field opened up in quick succession, the hollow boom echoing over the field of battle. The Ferum landships had already begun evasive actions. Some shells flew wide of their mark and blasted craters in the ground. One Ferum landship was struck by two separate impacts, one after another. The crew had no time to even evacuate as the armour was ripped open by the second shell and the tank was instantly immolated. Vorn put his head down as stray bullets hissed in the air overhead, and ran.

Vorn cleared the last of the rocky ground, his men in tow, as their rear line troops formed up along the edge of the forest ahead. The treeline was dotted with constructions of logs and sandbags forming a forward staging area for their siege. This part of the forest line was uphill of the field and gave a clearer view of the approach to the castle walls, and the slaughter on the battlefield. That much was evident as he drew near enough to see the faces of the soldiers arrayed along the makeshift defensive wall, where they had a good view of their fellow soldiers mowed down by the gatling guns.

Corpsmen rushed forward from the bastion carrying stretchers and satchels with field dressing and other medical implements. High above the rain continued to pour from clouds the colour of dull lead. Vorn stopped short of the wooden palisades and turned around to take stock of his returning force. Less than half of his charge had made it back alive, and almost half of those were wounded to one degree of severity or another. He looked beyond, back to the walls of Castle Ranford, and saw the Delphari landships trundling along the dugouts, taking positions along the fortifications.

Nine… General Vorn thought to himself grimly. We bloody had them down to three, now this. The enemy commander, a General Ilphett according to intelligence reports, was putting up a cunning and formidable defence against the Ferum military assault. They had intentionally concealed the number of landships they had garrisoned at the castle, as well as their gatling guns, presenting themselves as a weaker target than they actually were.

The towers along the walls had recently ceased disgorging the devastating hail of bullets from the newly uncovered gatling gun emplacements. The land between their forward bastion and the castle’s outer walls was a churned field of bodies and clods of bloodstained grass. Four of his landships sat as carcasses, two of them still burning. The surviving two had pulled back to their own staging point along the road that emerged from the western tree line. A few stray cavalry horses thundered along the field, their riders long dead behind them.

“Status of the 14th’s line?” Vorn barked at Lieutenant Ferraman. He relayed the request for status update in code. He had barely begun when Vorn spoke over him again with further orders. “Then have him impose a full withdrawal before he answers, if he has not already.” Continuing to issue the first order, Lieutenant Ferraman nodded his understanding to the general. With luck, his own forces had not charged too close, and perhaps some of the landships assigned to them were still intact. Not that it mattered, given the lack of artillery support to soften the outer defences. Vorn was not even sure they could breach the walls now if the 14th regiment had lost their own landships as well. Another young soldier on Vorn’s personal staff approached quickly with a horse for the general. Vorn spared another look toward the castle as he took hold of the reigns. “Why aren’t they pressing their attack?” He wondered out loud.

“General,” Ferraman said to his side. “The 14th and 47th are in full retreat also. Enemy landship count was down to two before the reinforcements, now eight in total. Lieutenant Colonel Methios reports two of his landships still intact. Four destroyed, three out of action for the day at least.”

“Blood and ash!” Vorn cursed. “Have them re-deploy their forward posting deeper into the trees and adopt a defensive posture while they lick their wounds. We all have wounds to lick. Then have Colonel Hernstridge begin forming a defensive retreat of our own. I want all troops reformed and ready to pull back to the rear camp within the half-hour.” Vorn hauled himself up onto his warhorse, took one look out across the battlefield, then turned his steed to make for the bastion.

“Sir, Colonel Hernstridge is dead.” Vorn turned back to Ferraman, grim disbelief on his face. Colonel Selven Hernstridge was the brigade commander, and commander of the 11th regiment, and had served with Vorn for over ten years. “Major Yvos was also killed in the first push,” Ferraman reminded Vorn. The major was Colonel Hernstridge’s second in command of the 11th. Vorn sat silent on his horse as the sound of rain rang against his plate armour as the rumblings of thunder rolled over the valley. Vorn paused a moment as he looked upward at the deep grey cloud covering.

“When the heavens open to receive the amassed dead of the wars of man, the Seraphym shall welcome them warmly as they weep at our folly.”

Vorn recited the passage from the Scripture of Dusk under his breath. The rain seemed to fall harder, as if in answer. The thunder bellowed louder, sounding long and mournful. Did it ever actually stop? Vorn, once more, turned his head to the sky, squinting against the raindrops striking his face.

Thunder… that droning noise…

Vorn looked back to his lieutenant once more, thinking his next order through. Ferraman’s face was locked in deep concentration as he pushed the vox headset firmly to his ears, cupping the speaker with both hands against the growing noise of heavy rain and the thunderous drone from the clouds above. Vorn waited a moment longer, sensing a change in fortunes. For better, or much worse, he was not yet sure. Ferraman locked eyes with the general as a wide smile crossed his face.

“Confirmed, stand by!” Ferraman released the activation stud on the side of the headset’s microphone boom. “Sir, you won’t believe this. I have contact with the ValHearan. They say they are ready to assist on your orders!” Vorn turned his head to the sky once more. Without turning away from the clouds above he issued the order to Ferraman.

“Have them join us directly,” he began. Ferraman began issuing the order as Vorn continued. “Relay target locations, I want those battlements brought down first then have them begin thinning out the landships on both flanks. Also inform the 14th and the 47th to reform their line for another push.” He gripped his warhorse’s reins tighter as it now became restless as he turned back to face the castle. The drone overhead steadily changed tone and grew to a deeper thrum. “Turn your eyes to the sky, my brothers of iron!” Vorn shouted across the last of the retreating lines of men, as well as those at the bastion walls. The retreating men stumbled around, their heads directed skyward.

The thick cloud layer seemed to bulge downward before slowly parting to reveal the brass and steel hull of the ValHearan airship. At almost 200 meters long, the ValHearan was one of only three such airships in service to the Ferum military air corps. The gas bladder was contained within an armoured hull decorated with ornate plates of brass. Either side of the prow section was adorned with the Ferum Republic Military coat of arms embossed in the armour plates in silver and gold relief. Along the centre line either side of the hull were large housings, which rotated on huge gears, containing dual-linked contraflow propellers that controlled pitch and altitude. A long gondola was slung below the hull, dotted with running lights winking green and red in the gloom. Gun housings in rotating cupolas were mounted to the side, several of which were short barreled howitzer cannons decorated with bronze mouldings representing the folded wings of an eagle. Other sponsons rotated into firing positions, bringing their 8-barrel rotary guns to bear to the ground below them.

The ValHearan’s bulk pushed its way through the gloom of the cloud layer above like its namesake avenging Seraphym of Ferum’s old legends. A promise of death for their enemies dispatched from on high. General Vorn reached over to this enquiry and took hold of the secondary vox handset, bringing it to his lips while pressing the activation stud.

“ValHearan,” he began, reciting from the scrolls engraved in his own memory. “Take up your sword, forged from the iron of the sky, and thrust it deep into the earth!”

Seconds later there was an answer from high above, the terrible blare of the airship’s warhorn followed by a fierce salvo from the gun emplacements. Thunder boomed in the sky once more, accompanied by the lightning flashes of cannon fire as the howitzers unleashed their fury one after another. The hills and forest around them echoed once more with the renewed sounds of war. The shells from the ValHearan rained down on the fortress and the surrounding land, sending rock and mud flying in all directions. The effect was swift and merciless, and soldiers along the enemy dugout scrambled for cover as bullets rained down from the rotary guns high above. Plumes of black steam billowed from the exhausts of the landships which broke from the safety of their nests in a panic, eager now to present the looming airship with as hard a target as possible. General Vorn rode his horse to the front of the reforming rank of soldiers, every man cheering to the sky. He pushed the stud on the vox handset once more, issuing the order to the 14th to begin their assault before handing it back to his lieutenant. He once more retrieved his pistol from the under-arm holster.

“All remaining cavalry grenadiers to the left flank,” he yelled to his own men, now hastily forming a proper battle rank. Understrength units formed together under the direction of their sergeants, rifles were checked, runners recovered replenishment ordinance from the bastion’s stores. “Ride in after the gun on the west tower are silent, target the landship nearest the main gate! Second wave to assault the trenches ahead, get in their lines once the artillery stops! Ferraman, inform our landships sit this out and continue their repairs.” More thunder rolled overhead between the rappid report of gattling gun fire. The enemy along the dugouts below the walls continued to scramble for cover as bullets rained on their position from above. Almost one after the other, two Delphari landships were reduced to torn metal by direct shots from above. The ValHearan gun crews began to get their eye in, the shells becoming more accurate. The first of their targets to be hit directly, a tower in the south-west corner, became a shower of shattered stonework as bodies were hurled over the wall. The cloud of dust flashed rapidly as bullet containers cooked off in the explosion and the gatling gun was reduced to a pile of chewed-up metal.

“Tower is clear!” Announced General Vorn as he dug his heels into his horse. His steed reared and launched itself forward. “All cavalry charge!”

Four hours later, General Vorn stood atop a mound of rubble by the main gates where the left tower had partially collapsed in their breach. He stood looking out beyond the ruined gate into the field where too much blood had been spilled. The battle was now over. They had won. The very taste of the word turned sour in his mouth before he could even utter it. In the large main courtyard behind him the dead were being organised by the brigade’s corpsmen. Vorn had observed the grim ritual for the first ten minutes before having to find other things to occupy his mind. Even here, assessing the repairs that would be needed to secure the castle walls once more, he could not escape the scenes of death. Rain continued to pour, and the gentle thrumming of the ValHearan’s engines filled the air. It circled the fields slow like a huge metal carrion bird.

“Ferraman,” Vorn spoke as he unclasped his helm. His adjutant was at his side in moments and took the helm from him. The air was muted all around, save for the sergeants occasionally issuing orders to their men. Refortification was underway as much as seeing to the dead, the prisoners and salvaging enemy and allied equipment alike. Everyone went about their work with a solemn yet methodical quiet. Vorn felt the steady flow of rain on his head, his short greying hair now matted to his head with sweat. He ran his hand through his hair several times leaving it tousled and unkempt looking, content to let the rain wash it back down. Finally, he turned to Ferraman once more.

“How long before the engineers get here? I want this gate secured quickly.”

“Yes sir, the rain and mud has made it difficult for them to move their heavier equipment. They should be here shortly sir.”

“I see.” Vorn turned back to the courtyard and the rows of dead Ferrum soldiers being laid out in bundling bags, not yet sewn shut as they were ready for identification by the regimental quartermasters. There was no sign of the Delphari dead that had filled this area not too long ago, though bodies were being cleared out from further in the fortress itself. They were being carried out beyond the wall, no doubt piled up in the field. Not far away, the surviving Delphari soldiers were being lined up and made to kneel in rows facing the wall. Vorn assumed the transport wagons for the prisoners would be here at a similar pace to the engineers. Above the outer courtyard the Delphari flag was finally cut from the flagpole. Vorn watched it tumble to the floor, the cloth folding over itself as it landed in the mud below. The eager soldiers that did the deed quickly secured the flag of the Ferum Republic to the cord and ran it up to full height. the flag caught the wind and unfurled quickly. With all that was happening below, the moment seemed to pass without remark or cheer from any of the Ferum soldiers. Vorn looked back to the work at hand and, after a moment’s pause, turned to Ferraman.

“I want a full list of our dead once completed,” he said. “Wait here for the engineers and see they get started immediately. I want the gateway repaired and fortified before nightfall.” Vorn marched from the rubble of the wall and headed for the interior of the main fortress.

He entered the door of the main barracks building through the assembly hall doors. Ferum soldiers stood in a rank at guard over another mass of kneeling prisoners. Their hands were bound in front of them and tied together in lines of ten. Around a dozen officers had been removed from the ranks of soldiers, including the garrison commander, and quartered in an adjacent office under guard. Vorn continued on through the room, sparing little more than a glance at his kneeling enemies. He would present himself to the garrison commander in due time. Vorn headed through a hallway leading deeper into the inner fortress, his route following the activity of medical staff and stretcher bearers moving along the halls carrying the injured to the makeshift field hospital. He had visited the fortress once before, though only for a few days and that was some years before the war broke out. If his memory served him, ahead was a small complex of training rooms. Their post-battle plan of operation had been to set up the surgery there in order to tend to their wounded. Just beyond would be an inner courtyard and the command building. His new office.

He found his way to the training complex which comprised of a series of large adjoining rooms. The doors along the hallway had been propped open and the sound of wounded soldiers grew louder the closer he came. He passed by, keeping clear of stretcher bearers making their way in and out, and continued to follow his mental map of the castle. He quickly and easily found his way to the courtyard beyond. Vorn stepped into the yard and was greeted by another scene of death. A fierce pitched battle had taken place here in the push to secure the garrison commander and his staff. Bodies from both sides still awaited removal. A great many bullet holes left crisscrossing lines of small craters along the walls. Dried blood stained various patches of brickwork as well as the ground beneath his feet where no doubt grievously wounded soldiers had already been removed for medical attention. There were only two other soldiers in the yard, moving along the bodies slowly, attending to the grim duty of identifying the dead. Vorn’s fists clenched tight enough to dig his nails into his palms. He slowly circled the yard, and stopped at the first body he came to. His uniform was drenched in crimson and his face was a death mask of shocked surprise. He checked the name tag.

Salvek. Vorn left the tag for the soldiers still making records and stood straight. I’m sorry, Salvek. The name was not familiar to Vorn, all the same, this was a young man under his command. He walked past after a moment’s pause as several more stretcher bearers entered the yard behind him. The next man, much older than Salvek, had seemed to have been caught in a blast. The paving slabs were blown apart into a charred crater, likely from a hand grenade.

Estarburg. Again, Vorn owed the man a moment’s unspoken apology before moving to the next in line, practically beside Estaburg. Vorn reached for the tag, lifting the slumped head back. He froze as the lifeless face looked up at him with an eerily calm expression on his face. Vorn felt like he would fall backwards, quickly taking a knee as he held the young man’s face.

Gallarvin… Vorn fought to keep his features stone-like as his own nephew stared back with lifeless eyes. Gods in the stars, Gallarvin. The young man had been struck in the chest by several bullets and his left leg was a burned mess. Vorn lowered his head and clenched his teeth. He wanted to scream, and cry. He needed something heavy to kick over in rage, or to hurl something at the wall and watch it shatter into pieces. He needed to roar in anger until his face and throat burned. His jaw tensed and his throat tightened as he willed strength back to his legs and rose up to his full height. He stepped backward, away from the wall and into the open portion of the courtyard where the rain still fell and did not move for several minutes. The stretcher bearers moved along the path and reached his nephew’s body. Vorn forced himself to turn and head back to the main outer courtyard. There was still too much to do before he was allowed the luxury of personal grief.

The scene unfolding in the main courtyard was one of orderly operation. The engineer corps had arrived and begun their work in earnest as they worked to repair the fallen gates with the help of their mobile steam crane. Not far from the scene was Ferraman, dependable as always in his task as Vorn’s aide. Many of the bodies were being prepared to be moved, the bundling bags being stitched up one by one as carts awaited their grim cargo. Another strong wagon was threading through the sea of activity to join a second identical one already parked along the back wall, close to the prisoners that were awaiting transport. The first of the carriages was already half full as a second rank of ten soldiers were ushered to the back. Their faces were all mixtures of emotions from sullen and defeated to angry and sour glares at their gaolers. Vorn watched the line of men making their way to the rear of the carriage as a flutter of azure blue at their feet caught his eye. He felt his anger well within as he realized what the prisoners were being made to do by the guards that herded them along. The Delphari flag, previously cut from the mast above the courtyard, had been spread out in the dirt between the prisoners and the wagon. They were being made to walk over their own fallen flag, by his own men.

“Hold!” Shouted Vorn from halfway across the courtyard, pointing at the prisoners with his arm outstretched. The rank of prisoners came to a sudden halt as the guards quickly braced their rifles for action, quickly assessing the situation. The corpsmen tending to the dead froze in place briefly, as did the armourers unloading fresh weapons and ammunition from their carriages. Even the sounds of the engineers construction work faltered at the general’s harsh tone before slowly picking back up in volume as work resumed. In the space of a few seconds, Vorn stormed across the yard toward the rank of prisoners. Ferraman departed his posting with the engineers and began making his way to his commander as did several of the officers present overseeing their various duties.

“Step back all of you,” Vorn growled at the Delphari prisoners. The captured soldiers shuffled backward from where they had stopped, just short of their trampled and muddied flag. “Guard, step aside,” ordered Vorn. The guardsman in his path quickly sidestepped the general as he marched through the picket. Ferraman was now several paces behind and followed through. Vorn halted at the fallen flag, bent over and quickly hauled it out of the wet muck. He rolled it up into a rough bundle as he gathered it from the ground and turned to face the line of prisoners briefly, stopping short of an apology for this churlish show of disrespect. Their faces were uncertain, and not a one gave him so much as a nod of gratitude in the couple of seconds before he turned to his own men. He gave the line of guards an even glare, long enough for them to notice it – to feel it – before he walked back through the picket. Censure would come later, and for now they had a job to do which he would not undermine.

“Carry on,” he barked as he passed the opening between the guards. Ferraman followed him out again as Vorn headed towards several junior officers who had gathered. He passed the rolled flag to his aide and addressed the officers directly.

“That display of poor taste will not happen again,” he said quietly, his tone laced heavily with reprimand. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Sir,” came their joint reply. Vorn gave them a quick nod before dismissing them back to their duties, with the exception of Ferraman.

“Sir,” he began carefully. “The 14th’s commander has arrived and is waiting for you.” Ferraman referred to Lieutenant Colonel Methios of the ‘Great Dukes’ regiment.

“Where?”

“By the gate, sir.” Vorn managed to suppress a groan under his breath as Ferraman left to resume overseeing the gate repairs. Methios had taken their conversation’s end as his cue to stride forward with the confident arrogance of a rooster, to say nothing of his almost pristine uniform. Not a feather out of place, Vorn noticed. He almost began walking towards the approaching officer but decided instead he should at least get some mud on his boots, and elected to allow the colonel to come to him. Not even half way across the yard, the Lieutenant Colonel began his pompous oratory.

“This is indeed a day to be remembered,” he began, loud enough to be heard over the engine of crane and the steam hammers now working on the tumbled section of wall around the gate. Vorn kept his face impassive. “This great victory will be long remembered in the annals of the Ferum military. Allow me the honour of congratulating you, General.” Methios, now within reach, offered an outstretched hand to the general. Vorn took it smoothly, his face still a mask of stone, and shook only briefly.

“What of your men?” Vorn enquired. As part of the security plan, the two supporting regiments were tasked with perimeter defence, forming an outer and inner line of dugouts until the fortress itself could be made fully secure. In the confusion of the final push, there was always the outside chance that scores of enemy soldiers, already outside the wall, could have broken through a hole in their advancing line and made a retreat to the forests either side of the fortress. A counter attack was not likely but nothing should be discounted, either. This fortress was hard fought for and dearly bought in Ferum blood. It would not be lost to them a second time. He would not allow it.

“The perimeter is being established,” Methios said as he began removing his leather gloves, plucking one finger loose at a time. “And my men are already deploying to their marked locations, having resupplied from the forward base.” Vorn gave a nod of approval. He may not like the man for the insufferable brown-nose he is, but he was damned efficient in the running of his regiment. As he pulled the first glove free he looked around at shook his head, an approximation of awe on his face.

“The impossible was made possible here today,” he said, injecting as much adoration into his speech as he could. And there, again, was Vorn’s dislike of the man rising to the surface like a bloated corpse in water. “When news of this victory spreads, all of Ferum will rejoice your name, General. You will be lauded as the hero to the people that you are.” Vorn wanted to spit a retort somewhere along the lines of ‘The people can eat rot’ but managed to stifle it as he watched the enemy soldiers being loaded onto more transport wagons. “I am certain that Chancellor General Rouche will be most pleased by this step forward. This success leaves the entire Delphari south-eastern flank exposed for a renewed push.”

The Chancellor can eat rot, too.

“I am sure he will be pleased,” Vorn managed to say as his eyes fell back to the ranks of dead being loaded onto other carts.

“Indeed. I need to return to my second and see the outer line preparations are underway properly. With your leave, General.” Vorn turned and nodded. The colonel snapped off a crisp salute, which Vorn returned, and headed back to the main gate where his staff car was likely idling. Nearby, Ferraman had been keeping a close eye on their exchange awaiting its conclusion. Vorn saw he was clutching an alarming amount of binders, likely containing resupply orders.

“He’s an acquired taste,” came a familiar and morose voice from behind. Vorn turned slowly to the newcomer, who he already knew was Lieutenant Colonel Riktor Arnecastle. Arnecastle stood at just over six foot tall, his hair was trimmed short all around and showed signs of greying along the temples. His face bore the harsh angular features belying his Astavolian heritage. The lieutenant colonel commanded the 47th ‘Red Tails’ regiment which had assisted as backup and support for the 14th under Colonel Methios. Though unlike Methios, Vorn noticed that Arnecastle’s battle dress was in a similar state as his own and showed signs of having led the fight from the front. “I am sure he means well, though, continued Arnecastle, as Ferraman began a slow walk towards them both.

“I assume you refer to Methios,” asked Vorn in a dry tone. “And not my aide.” Arnecastle smiled thinly and nodded an affirmative.

“It does seem, though, your aide has an arm full of work for you so I will be brief. There seems to have been a serious problem with my regiment’s resupply order.” Vorn slowly closed his eyes and let out a groan of frustration. “The quartermaster at the central camp has less than half of what my regiment requires to form a proper security cordon in our assigned area. Even more so now, given our lack of functioning landships and artillery. I am seeing to the disposition of what we have currently. I just wanted to inform you personally and…”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel,” Vorn interrupted firmly as Ferraman drifted into earshot. “See the lieutenant gets a list of the correct inventory shortfall. I will have a pre-approval waiting for swift dispatch back to the garrison at Lentavian Moore.” Ferraman, ever dependable and swift on the uptake, stepped into the conversation.

“Of course, sir,” he said quickly. “I will have a fast rider attend to the dispatch with haste, just leave the details with me.” In reply, Arnecastle withdrew a folded document from beneath his jacket and handed it to Ferraman.

“Already done. Here are the details.” Ferraman quickly rebalance the binders in his arms to free up a hand and took the document from the lieutenant colonel with a grateful nod.

“Of course. I will attend to this immediately.”

“I will leave you to your business, General.” Arnecastle and Vorn exchanged a brief salute before the lieutenant colonel returned to a horse of his own.

“See to that order first,” said Vorn. “We can’t have the blasted supply lines fall apart like this. Finding out who fouled up the allotments can wait for now.”

“Once this is done, sir, I have dispatches awaiting attention. Also, the commodore of the ValHearan has made contact and wishes an audience as your earliest convenience, though they are slated to depart next daylight. And we have the first tally of the dead and injured.” Vorn’s face hardened at that last part. While it was left unsaid, Ferraman was referring to the need to begin the mountain of condolence letters to be dispatched to the families of the dead soldiers. For a commanding officer, the battle never simply ended once the killing stopped. He would revisit the death of the last few hours slowly over the course of the next few days.

Gallarvin.

“Signal the commodore,” said Vorn, his throat feeling quite dry. “Tell him I will see him in one hour. Ensure he is directed promptly to the commander’s office. I may as well take up residence there for a while. Have my effects brought from the rear camp as soon as you see to that supply debacle. After that, we can begin the dispatches and dealing with the fallen.” Ferraman nodded and headed off to the castle stable where his horse was saddled. He would, Vorn knew, deal with this faster by riding directly to the camp and seeing to things there. Vorn gave the courtyard a final walk around, ensuring orders were being carried out smoothly. The engineers had already secured one of the gates in place, erecting temporary metal frames around the breaches and mounting the refortified gate in place with their large steam crane. Debris were being cleared away and placed to one side for salvage, and the final batches of prisoners were being loaded up, save for the officers…

Hells. Thought Vorn, remembering he had yet to present himself to the surrendered commander. An old military courtesy, maybe, but one he insisted upon. War, however hard and bitterly fought, was a time when the smallest civilities were not just good manners. It was utterly crucial that they were observed.

Vorn informed the officers overseeing the cleanup where he would be if the need arises, then marched back through the interior of the stronghold to the holding area. He selected a small guard detail and told them to bring the commander to the office, and headed through the corridors leading back to the training courtyard and the command complex beyond. The courtyard was now empty. Vorn paused a brief moment, his eyes resting on the rust-red smear of dried blood where he had found his nephew. He forced himself to march on quickly, the dry tightness returning to his throat. There would be time for that later.

Vorn spent time clearing space in his new office before there was a gentle tapping at the half-open door. He looked up to see a soldier’s face looking through the opening. One of the guards tasked with escorting the garrison commander from the officer’s holding area.

“Yes, just a moment soldier,” said Vorn, pressing his hands to his long coat in an attempt to smooth it down. It was, Vorn knew, somewhat futile. His coat was still damp with rain and crumpled from his breastplate, which now sat against the wall near the heavy polished oak desk. Either way, a soldier’s pride demanded that he look as presentable to the enemy as he could.

“OK, bring him in.” He stood facing the door as the soldier opened it fully and stepped through the door to allow the prisoner to follow through. Vorn watched the commander enter the room behind the young guard and…

“That would be her,” came a tired sounding woman’s voice as she entered the room. “ Thank you very much. And you must be General Belethor Vorn.” Vorn cleared his throat and frowned a little. She was a diminutive figure with full black hair tied back in a bun, now somewhat disheveled from the events of the last few hours. Her face was round and she had steel grey eyes which, while clearly weary, were keen and focused as she measured him up. Vorn guessed her age to be at least a decade younger than him, putting her around her late thirties at most, perhaps forty at a push. Her uniform was the grey and green of the Delphari military, as disheveled as his own from the battle, and properly adorned with the rank insignia of a Delphari colonel. Dried blood stained her right sleeve, though she appeared to be unharmed on the whole, save for a small grazed patch on her left cheek.

“I…” Vorn coughed quickly to recover his thoughts. He had not expected the commander of this fortress to be a colonel, let alone female. He was not even aware of any women rising to such ranks in any military. “My apologies. And you seem to have me at a disadvantage, Colonel. I was expecting General Ilphett.”

“Sorry to have disappointed you, General.” The woman managed a weak but genuine smile.

“Your name?” Vorn asked.

“Ephiria Alcainous. Lieutenant Colonel, Delphari military, and the garrison co… that is, former garrison commander of Ranford Castle. On behalf of my soldiers, I formerly surrender to you at this time under the conventions of war.” Vorn nodded his head quickly as she finished up.

“Of course, I accept your surrender on these terms.”

“I’m glad one of us does,” she said with a sigh before lowering her head and taking a deep breath. “Forgive me, General. That was… not professional.”

“I quite understand,” said Vorn, cautiously. “Think nothing of it.”

“Thank you.”

“And where is General Ilphett?” Vorn asked. Alcainous remained silent, her face impassive. “Hm. I take it I cannot number him among the dead, correct?” Again, the female colonel said nothing in response. Vorn turned to the two guards present.

“Wait outside.” The men nodded and quickly departed. Once the door was closed and the two were alone, Vorn paced around behind the desk and gestured for Alcainous to sit at one of the chairs opposite him.

“I apologise for the mess in here,” she said, her smile returning. “I was not expecting company.” Vorn lowered himself into his seat after she took hers. He stared at her for a moment as he felt himself smiling back. It was the first smile he had felt on his face in weeks.

“Tell me, Colonel. Are you injured?” He asked. She tilted her head inquisitively before Vorn gestured to the large amount of blood dried to her sleeve.

“Ah, no. My attache.” Silence hung between them for a few seconds as her eyes wandered to the desk ahead of her and stared into the distance between. “He didn’t make it.”

“I see.” Vorn almost made a sympathetic remark, or even an apology, before reminding himself that these were his people’s enemy. His job was to defeat them.

“General Ilphett was not present at the start of your siege.” She said, finally. Vorn rested his forearms on the heavy desk in front of him and locked his fingers together. “That is all I will divulge, I am sure you understand.”

“Very well.” Vorn leaned back again and took her measure for the second time since she entered the room. He did not doubt she was telling the truth, though the thought of the enemy general still at large somewhere in the countryside gave him cause for disquiet. How large of a force he had with him at the time was of even more concern. Especially with a supply chain issue having arose, their landships and artillery mostly destroyed and the troops breaking camp to relocate to the fortress itself. He filed the thoughts to the back of his mind for now, knowing the ValHearan was still on station for at least the remainder of the day and night. They were as secure as they could be, all things considered.

“If I may ask you a question,” Alcainous ventured, “Do you have a tally of the dead? For my own people I mean.”

“Not at this time. My adjutant staff will be collecting this information. I can see that you get it if you wish. Though we plan to transport you to a stockade as soon as possible.” Alcainous nodded her thanks.

“And your own, if I may ask?” Vorn frowned at her, taking care to guard his response.

“Are you curious how many of my men fell to your defences?” Vorn asked, his tone barely masking a spark of anger as the mental image returned again.

Gallarvin.

Again, Vorn quickly pushed it away.

“Professional courtesy,” she said calmly, noticing she had struck a nerve and keeping her tone intentionally neutral. “I am sorry if asking was out of line.” The room fell to silence for entirely too long to be comfortable. Vorn eventually broke the silence.

“Seven hundred and eighteen dead at current count. Almost twice that wounded over the course of our siege.” Alcainous nodded slowly and locked her steel grey eyes with his. They lost none of their strength as they met his own eyes of dark brown which, despite his own fatigue, seemed capable of splitting solid rock with the force of their stare.

“With respect, I hope you will understand I make no apologies or offer no sympathy.” She maintained her calm and neutral tone. Vorn nodded slowly. In some way he respected her stance, having taken the same one himself. She showed herself ever more the capable commander who led such a punishing defence in more ways than displaying such tactical acumen.

“Our people are at war,” Vorn said evenly. “And we are all soldiers. You seem like a commander that understands this.”

“With that in mind,” she continued as smoothly as she could. “I would like your personal guarantee that my men will be treated as such by your own, as your prisoners of war.”

“You have it.”

“Would it be asking too much for you to see our dead returned to their homeland?”

“I am afraid so. Resources in war are reserved for…”

“Your own needs,” she interjected. “ As I expected. Very well, I quite understand.”

“I can see to their burials in the field not far from here,” Vorn offered. “At this time I cannot do more.” Alcainous slowly exhaled, her weary smile returning.

“That will be sufficient. At least further arrangements can be made to intern them in the future. Hopefully when this hells damned war is over.” Vorn remained silent and stared at her keeping his face impassive.

This war that we started. He thought to himself.

“Guard,” said Vorn, his voice loud enough to carry through the door to the outside. The door opened and the first guard stepped back into the room, his partner holding outside, both of their rifles held at port arms. Lieutenant Colonel Alcainous, understanding the conversation was now over, slowly stood at the same time as Vorn.

“Thank you for your assurances, General.” She said. Vorn nodded at her as she turned to face the guards that would escort her back to holding with her officers.

“I will see what I can do about your casualty reports,” offered Vorn as she began walking to the door. She stopped briefly and turned to lock her steel grey eyes with his once more. Her face was still weary, yet those eyes seemed to smile at him.

“I appreciate that.” Vorn slowly lowered himself into his seat as Alcainous left, feeling the fatigue taking firm hold of all of his senses. The light from the bay window overlooking the training facility courtyard was dim. He had not noticed until now the daylight was failing as the grey clouds snuffed out what little the sun could provide this late in the day. It was enough to make him want to sleep for days.

Almost half an hour later, Vorn had finished locating a taper to light the oil lamp on the wall when a familiar knock came from the door.

“Come in, Lieutenant,” Vorn said as he struck a match and held it to the length of taper. He opened the valve on the lamp and lowered the taper down into the flume. The room gradually illuminated as the door opened and Lieutenant Ferraman entered, followed by a Ferum officer dressed in the colours of the newly formed Air Corps. Ferraman still clutched his stack of binders which seemed to have gotten bigger, though Vorn was convinced that was likely more his imagination.

“Commodore,” said Vorn in greeting. As their ranks were essentially equivalent to each other no salutes were required between them. Instead, Vorn stepped forward and offered his hand the commander of the ValHearan.

“General Vorn,” he said, shaking Vorn’s hand with a firm grip. “Commodore Donnel Heizen of the airship ValHearan. Thank you for seeing me so quickly. It is an honour to finally meet you.”

“The honour is mine,” said Vorn, heading back to his new desk. “Your timely arrival secured this victory and helped save many of my men. You have my gratitude” Vorn gestured for the commodore to sit in one of the chairs as he took his own seat. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Ferraman lingered by a tall bookcase along the right side of the room.

“There was little time to tarry after we left port. The weather began to turn foul and we took a slow pace higher up.” Vorn nodded, though his knowledge of aeronautics was limited. He turned to his lieutenant waiting to the side.

“Lieutenant, feel free to set the folders down anywhere there is space. Commodore, would you like something to drink while we talk?” Ferraman quickly located a space on the large side table and unburdened himself, already scanning the room for anything that would pass as refreshments.

“Wait outside, please.” Lieutenant Ferraman saluted and headed for the door, closing it gently behind him. “I get the feeling you came here for reasons beyond salvaging this siege, Commodore. Unless military high command has less faith in me than they proffer to my face.”

“You make it sound like you were losing so badly, General. I am confident you would have broken through the defenses shortly.”

“I would like to say I would have already if I had not lost half my artillery in an accident.” The commodore raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Some fool mishandled powder in the supply carriage as they were setting up a second line. Blew the whole lot sky high, as well as a load of men. Half a dozen howitzers also out of commission.”

“I am sorry to hear that. Even the best plans cannot account for cruel turns of fortune.”

“So it would seem. As a result, I had to send the landships in closer than I would have liked before we softened their own lines up enough to commit that close.” Vorn leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair, letting out a frustrated sigh. “And then they sprung a clever trap on us.” Vorn briefly outlined the last hour of the failed assault. “I was in the process of ordering a full retreat to give us time to redress our strategy when you entered the battle. Your airship is quite impressive.”

“Thank you,” said the commodore with a gracious nod of his head.

“Though last I had heard you were due to join the defence of the Stillwater Gates. Bringing us back to the business at hand. What is it I can do for you, Commodore?”

Commodore Heizen reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a folded letter, secured with a deep orange wax seal. He placed it on the table before Vorn.

“I was instructed to deliver this to you.” Vorn took the letter and turned it over in his hands a few times, his face contemplative. The orange seal was that of the office of Overgeneral Utherbern himself. He had no need to view the crest on the seal to know this. An orange dispatch was usually one of the utmost importance. He pulled the seal from the thick parchment and looked at the commodore again.

“What else?” Vorn knew full well a fast rider could have made it here in as much time.

“You should read the letter first, General.”

“You know its contents?”

“Not specifically. I have orders awaiting me on my ship which I am instructed to open once you have read yours…” The commodore trailed off, as if waiting for Vorn to read the dispatch. Vorn frowned and began reading. Several moments passed as Vorn’s frown turned slowly to somewhere between frustration and disbelief. Commodore Heizen held both his hands up in a placatory gesture. “And after you join me on my ship and are ready to depart. Then I will learn of our destination. That is all I have been told.” Vorn almost crumpled the letter in his fist before setting it back to the table, thinking better of such a display of childish anger.

“And you whisk me away to heavens knows where? Leaving this command in the hands of Methios, no less.”

“I have not had the pleasure, personally,” said the commodore in reference to Colonel Methios. “I do understand, however, he has a certain personality that may take some getting used to. I am sorry you must relinquish your newly conquered fortress to him.”

“I am not so specifically concerned about this fortress or who has the ‘pleasure’ of commanding it,” said Vorn, his voice a low growl. He stood and began to pace the floor behind his desk. “And I will be the first to admit I dislike all this secrecy and skulking. It does not feel like war. However, we have security and supply issues I should be here to deal with in person.”

“I am afraid that will have to be Colonel Methios’ burden now, General.” Vorn paced the room for several quiet seconds before letting out another sigh of resigned frustration. He could not go against this order however much he would wish to try.

Resupply issues, thought Vorn. Masses of wounded and dead. Enemy officers and soldiers to be dispatched to penal facilities, to say nothing of General Ilphett still a large with who knows what forces at his disposal.

Vorn turned the situation around in his head several times while the commodore patiently waited for any further discussion, his task completed for the moment.

“Very well,” said Vorn eventually. “I have no choice, I suppose.” Commodore Heizen nodded and stood, ready to take his leave.

“For what it’s worth, I understand your frustration,” Heizen said as he smoothed his coat. Vorn nodded in response. He had never been one to shoot the messenger and knew the commodore was at no fault here.

“When do you need me to be ready to depart?”

“We will need to make our wind no later than eight AM tomorrow. I will return at seven to shuttle you up to the ValHearan and get you situated. You may want to bring personal effects with you, in the likelihood this is not a short trip.”

“Good thing I had the lieutenant make arrangements to see them brought from camp.” Commodore Heizen gave Vorn an amused smile and nodded his head before turning back to the door to leave.

“I shall get out of your hair for now, General. I suspect you have a long night ahead of you.” The commodore inclined his head to the side table where Lieutenant Ferraman had left the stacks of binders. Vorn followed his gesture and looked back to the commodore again.

“What, those?” He grumbled. “I am afraid they will have to be Colonel Methios’ burden.”

Commodore Heizen let out a short laugh before he left the room. Vorn was still stood in place behind his desk as Lieutenant Ferraman entered the room carrying two more oil lamps he had scrounged up from the neighbouring rooms. He quickly set about lighting them one after the other, placing them wherever they were best suited as Vorn sat back down.

“It appears,” said Vorn slowly, measuring his temper as he felt it rise once more. “We are going on a little mystery flight.” The lieutenant stopped half way across the room from the pile of binders he had intended to begin working through. His eyes slowly went wide as he looked at Vorn, who was now turning the letter over in his hands once more, still contemplating screwing it up and tossing it out of the window in anger.

“F… flight?” Stammered the lieutenant.

“Yes, flight. As in, up in the air.” Vorn looked up at Ferraman. “On the ValHearan.” Vorn added for the sake of clarity.

“I… see.”

“Orders from Overgeneral Utherbern himself. Entirely too cryptic for my tastes.” Vorn fanned the folded letter around some more, staring at it intently. “I have entirely much to do before we depart tomorrow morning. I want my effects packed for travel, and I need you to get that insufferable bootlick, Methios, over here again tomorrow morning.” Vorn let the letter fall to the table and rubbed his face as he continued to speak. “Also I will need to appoint a successor to Colonel Hernstridge before the change of command. I’ll be damned if I will hand my troops over to Methios without a clear senior officer present, so… what?” Vorn eventually noticed that, as he was talking, Lieutenant Ferraman had slowly lowered himself into a seat, the pile of binders seemingly forgotten. Ferraman’s face was a wide-eyed pale mask of worry.

“Uhm… I have a fear of heights, sir.” Vorn slowly closed his eyes and brought his palms up to his face, resting his elbows on the table, and sighed once more.

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2017/03/01/ferum-chapter-1-1/feed/0Food Blog – Stuffed Texas Cornbreadhttp://vandeamon.com/2017/01/29/food-blog-stuffed-texas-cornbread/
http://vandeamon.com/2017/01/29/food-blog-stuffed-texas-cornbread/#commentsSun, 29 Jan 2017 18:17:44 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=262Read More]]>Some years ago I was given a copy of a cookbook by my one of my favourite chef pairings, The Hairy Bikers. The cookbook is called Mums Know Best, and I highly recommended it. This is my version of one of the recipes in that book, which they called Texas Cornbread. However, having done a little wider reading of more recipes I soon realized that what everywhere else calls Texas Cornbread is not the same as the book’s version. The book’s version of Texas Cornbread has minced beef sandwiched between two layers of cornbread batter and baked, while the recipes online seem to be simply cornbread with chillis chopped into it, and sometimes cheese. So, for want of not stepping on any cultural toes, I will call mine Stuffed Texas Cornbread.

As I have said, this is a modified version from the book, so if you were to compare them you will realize some of it is a little different. Read on some more after the recipe below for some insights I had between my first two attempts.

Filling

Process

Dice the onion and peppers and saute in a large pan with the ground beef and a little oil over medium heat until the beef has browned.

Add the taco seasoning and stir through evenly. How much depends on your tastes, though if you are not sure how much to use, read the packaging and see how much meat it is meant to be used with, and adjust accordingly. Add the tomato paste as well and mix. Add salt and pepper as desired. Take the beef off the heat and set aside to cool.

While the beef cools down, make the cornbread batter. Whisk the two large eggs and buttermilk together in a mixing bowl.

Mix the cornmeal, bicarbonate of soda and salt together and add to the egg and buttermilk mix. Whisk to a smooth batter then add the sweetcorn, stirring through evenly.

Set your oven to 180c. Place the butter in a 12″ pie dish and put it in the oven to heat up. Keep an eye on it and take it out when the butter is bubbling and starting to foam. Take care not to burn the butter!

Remove from the oven and quickly spoon in half the batter, spreading around the base evenly. Be careful not to rip the mixture as it cooks and sets on the base and avoid leaving any holes.

Gently add the ground beef on top of the setting batter, spreading evenly. I find a wide and shallow spoon is useful for this, letting you gently slide the mix off so as not to break holes in the base.

Mix the shredded cheese with the last half of the batter and pour over the beef, spreading evenly. Put the dish in the oven and bake for 30-40 mins or until the topping has baked to a golden brown.

Stuffed Cornbread

A Sliced View

Served with sweet potato fries and BBQ beans with sour cream and bacon bits!

I gave this recipe a test run a couple of weeks ago and learned a few things. Having followed the recipe in the book step by step I felt that the beef lacked any taste, given they simply fry it with onions and nothing else, and the ingredients for the cornbread batter would have made a mixture that was entirely too runny to serve the purpose. Maybe this was just me, and what I had to hand. Specifically the recipe’s call for a can of creamed corn. Now, this is not something one typically finds on the supermarket shelves in England. And attempts to make my own for these recipes has resulted in a mixture that was quite runny. Adding this into the batter meant it would be way too wet, and as such I left it out of my second attempt and opted to mix loose sweetcorn into the batter instead.

I also decided to add more flavour to the beef by way of a packet of taco seasoning mix and a little tomato paste. Though any kind of seasoning would do. As long as it is a dry mix and not a sauce. I have also omitted the jalapeno peppers in the recipe, as I am not really a fan of them to begin with, and finally added bell peppers to the beef for some added crunch.

Also, something I learned while assembling the dish the first time around is the importance of speed when pouring the batter into some hot fat in the pie dish. I was too slow before, dawdling a little as I discovered I had skipped a step and the fat got cool while I sorted out my mistake. The reason for pouring the mix into the hot fat, like butter or bacon fat, is to cook the base quickly and seal the bottom ready for the beef. So when I dropped the beef into the dish on top of the batter the weight of it pushed the wet mixture to one side and the beef cooked to the bottom of the dish, sticking in place and making serving it difficult. And, related to this, I simply dropped the first heaped spoon of beef into the mix instead of gently placing it over the batter evenly, so this did not help. This time I cooked the beef before anything else, even before making the batter or heating the pie dish, giving it time to cool so I could use my hands to sprinkle it around. And the last thing I did was put the dish in the oven to heat the butter, getting the batter into the dish the minute I took it out when the butter was bubbling.

Overall it was quite successful, and I was pleased with the result. I think I need to tweak the batter mix a little more and I am still not sure about using sweetcorn in the batter mix. I might do things a little different next time and add the corn to the beef mix too, or just omit it entirely. Either way, I hope you like the look of this and decide to make it yourself.

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2017/01/29/food-blog-stuffed-texas-cornbread/feed/1Ferum Republic and Site Reshufflehttp://vandeamon.com/2017/01/15/ferum-republic-and-site-reshuffle/
http://vandeamon.com/2017/01/15/ferum-republic-and-site-reshuffle/#commentsSun, 15 Jan 2017 13:27:59 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=130Read More]]>In November I published the first part of The Skid Journal’s first chapter. Needless to say, given the length of time it took to complete, I had a little trouble with this part. It is difficult to put my finger on why, though one thing I was conscious of was a need to work on something new and interesting while the idea was fresh in my brain.

In my last blog I spoke about a new project called Ferum Republic. I started making notes for this story earlier in 2016 and found it turned into a larger than expected world building project which has given me more story to work with as a result. Besides being a different kind of story to The Skid, I am also exploring a different style of writing. More off the cuff, with less actual planning ahead. This is new to me as I have always plotted out the script ahead of time and tried to write to that. I found with the last part of The Skid Journal that this sometimes creates problems. Maybe because my creative impulse is spent on the planning phase, leaving little else to offer when I was fleshing out my skeleton of a story.

With Ferum I have found that writing without a direct plan is helping me enjoy my writing a lot more as it feels more fluid in the moment from something I scribbled down weeks before. Instead of working to a pre-set story plan, I focus on providing myself with more detailed information about the world instead. Its history, society, key character information and so on. And as I write out a scene with only a vague direction to guide me, I finish by listing some questions raised by what I have just written. Things like “Why does this character go along with this other character?” and “If these people succeed with their plan, how will that affect the town?”. I have found they give me good leads on what to write next without pre-answering what specifically happens. And, ironically, this is a method of story telling I came across in the tabletop roleplay game, Apocalypse World. Which The Skid Journals are based off, by the way.

As for progress so far with the Ferum Republic story. Over Christmas and New Year I took a trip to Canada for a holiday, and to visit my friend, Sakaane. As it turns out, coffee mornings and good company with a fellow writer enthusiast can be quite productive. Over the course of the two weeks I had, on and off, written close to 14,000 words on top of the initial drafting I had already worked on. And then I edited some of the early writing to bring it more in line with where my mind was going now I am writing on it more directly. Anyway, let’s get some perspective on that number, shall we?

Chapter 1, part 3 of The Skid Journal comes in at 8,544 words.

Chapter 1, part 1 of Ferum Republic is 9,333 words. So, we can call this comparable so far, right? And I had initially written around 1,000 of those words already as an early draft, long before I left for Canada, so the net total was more like 8,300ish words.

I then wrote a chunk of chapter 1, part 2 which is so far up to 4,452 words. And it is just getting started.

Finally, I have another part of an as yet unknown chapter, which I had already written a small chunk of while making notes two months ago. That so far comes up to 1,131 words. And the reason I say this is an as yet unknown chapter number is because it might get pushed back further to make way for more early story content I had not even thought about when I had the inspiration for this story early last year. Originally it was meant to directly follow what is now only the first half of chapter 1, part 1. I have mentioned in my last blog that I wish to explore writing short stories, taking only a glimpse of a realised world and displaying a small slice of it here on my site. Ferum Republic was meant to be a writing exercise, where a story may be no longer than around 6,000-8,000 words before it was done. However as I have worked on it, and the world around the story, I have seen much greater potential. In the two weeks I spent in Canada, I have found even more story to write than I had originally expected. So, let’s see where it takes us, shall we?

When does this new story land? I am not entirely sure yet. These are only first drafts still and I may wish to publish them in short installments as I have done with The Skid. I do also wish to be some way ahead of where I publish, to give myself a little breathing room. As long as I am riding this wave of motivation and inspiration I would like to keep following it and see how far the stream of words takes me. I also intend to focus on Ferum Republic in the immediate future, since I am having fun with the story so far as well. I will, however, continue to develop The Skid Journals alongside it, after I find my groove for it again. Which will not be too long, I am confident of that. I will aim to publish them around a similar time frame as each other, with a little gap between. So keep your eyes peeled.

The second subject of discussion is a little reshuffle of the website’s structure. At current, I have Vandeamon Writing and EVE Works. EVE Works has become quite neglected as I focused on The Skid Journals, and now Ferum Republic is taking a lot of my attention. And in the latter half of last year, I came to a decision to leave EVE Online outright for the foreseeable future. I am not sure I will be back, as the game itself holds little interest for me anymore. Even though I find the world setting and the history to still hold much interest. Without fresh experiences in gameplay I have little ambition to write any fresh character fiction for the site. I still have my backlog to work through and get them ready to publish, after a few brief edits here and there. However, it makes little sense at this point to keep them as two different sites.

I will be looking to move the EVE content to Vandeamon Writing, giving the content its own section. I am exploring ideas of how to effectively do this, though most likely it will dwell within a menu much like the Apocalypse World stories and, eventually, Ferum Republic and the scrapbook.

Finally, on a similar note, I have been thinking about blogging a little more than just my writing on Vandeamon. I am still not entirely sure what would go there yet. Anything? Everything? Writing related thoughts only, or as well as? I will let this idea ferment a little more before I move on it, though if something comes along that feels like it belongs in its own blog area, I will certainly write it and feel the rest of the process out.

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2017/01/15/ferum-republic-and-site-reshuffle/feed/1The Skid Journals 1-3 – Meet and Greethttp://vandeamon.com/2016/11/28/skid-journals-d1-p3/
http://vandeamon.com/2016/11/28/skid-journals-d1-p3/#respondMon, 28 Nov 2016 22:38:48 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=125Read More]]>The large gates slowly trundled open with a grinding noise that reminded Cobra of a rock slide, heard even over the steady rumble of his engine. Beyond the widening opening, a second barrier was also sliding sideways to the right of the entrance; a heavy frame construction of rusted metal girders forming a wedge which braced the back of the gate itself. A precaution against ramming attacks. As it neared more than half way open the group got their first look beyond the walls, save for Tuc who had visited before on business. The old cracked road surface stretched directly ahead for about half a mile before reaching the opposite wall and another, equally fortified gate. The town spread to the left of the road around 100 meters before dipping down into the slope. They drove through the gates and along the road towards an old forecourt to the left that may formerly have been a petrol station or used car sales lot. The surrounding buildings seemed to be relics of the old world, maintained as best as can be expected after over a century of post-calamity neglect. At the slope and beyond the buildings were all constructs of salvaged junk, old shipping containers, ruined vehicles and even a large boat, capsized and beached at the edge of the slope. Small outcroppings of buildings had been built out of the upturned hull, clinging to the ship like barnacles made from scrap metals and wood. A short distance past the now-closing gates the group pulled into the old forecourt, each of them getting out and stretching their legs once more.

“And here we are,” said Tuc, his old jovial self returning with each passing minute. “I give you, Cinder Rock.” Tuc punctuated his point with arms raised out and upwards, the large crags of blackened rock towering either side of the town behind him. Cobra, Cin and Midnight stared blankly at him for a moment before letting their eyes wander around their surroundings once more. The upper road seemed to be nearly empty of people, save for around half a couple of passers-by who had stopped to observe the newcomers. Others simply trudged on while sparing little more than a glance their way.

“Is it always this lively?” Enquired Cobra, a cocky smile spreading across his face. “I may need to sit back down and catch my breath.”

“Oh, likely people are still at market further down the slope.” Tuc directed their attention to a trail they had passed to their left, not far past the gate, which stretched down the slope of The Skid itself. The group spent a moment to take in their surroundings. Midnight’s eyes followed the line of buildings across the road from them. Beyond them would be the large expanse of the flats, and a large flat-topped construct they noticed from the road on their approach to the gates. The road was lined with several small hangar buildings sitting in front of larger old warehouses with sloped roofs and no windows. Here and there breaks in their brick and concrete walls had been covered up with sheets of rusted metal giving them a patchwork appearance. Further in several rusted old silos stood even higher, their tops visible from the road. A couple of them had split open and were blackened from fires that raged long ago. A layer of old chain link fence stretched along the border of the large warehouse buildings, secured by loops of steel rods bolted to the brickwork. Further along from where they entered the town the road branched to the right between the largest gap in the warehouses. From this distance Midnight could just make out the large double gate that straddled the road and a lone figure, possibly a guard, leaning against the side of a small booth. Meanwhile, Cobra had taken to inspecting the damage to his SUV, disinterested in the view of the town.

“Well,’ continued Tuc, breaking the silence. “I expect you gentlemen will want your payment.” Tuc marched to the back door of his van with renewed vigour, the group slowly gathering. With a salesman’s flourish, Tuc opened the back of his van and extended his arms towards the disheveled pile of crates and baskets containing trinkets and goods, from old beaten cooking wares to boxes of bullets and shotgun shells. Old electronic items sat beside children’s’ toys. Construction tools such as hammers and saws occupied an old metal basket in the back corner, as well as several small boxes containing mixtures of nails reformed out of scrap. There was even an old parasol, the original canvas long since moulded and shredded away now replaced with beaten sheet metal that overlapped in segments, allowing it to be folded still. The back of the van was hardly a sunken and fabled hulk of the old world, full of luxury treasures that could make a man rich for the rest of his life. Midnight and Cobra exchanged glances while Cin’s expression was, as usual, concealed behind his half-mask. Instead, he somehow managed, even standing still as he was now, to project a constant impression of disgruntlement.

“Again, gentlemen,” continued Tuc, somewhat abashed as he began troubling at the piles of items. He climbed into the back and attempted to reorganize the one large heap of boxes and bags into several smaller heaps as he spoke. “I wish I could have paid you a lot more in actual currency that you can use here. You may recall me informing you that The Skid settlements have all agreed on a currency called chips. I used to have a modest cache of this myself to send with the caravans to conduct trade here when unable to get here myself. I was, regrettably, forced to spend much of it on… ah, well.” Tuc gestured to the faded green van itself, purchased with the purpose of making their journey here. “Much of the rest I am going to need to establish myself here, as we discussed, but I am sure any of these goods would either fetch a good barter price if you were to resell them anywhere. Or maybe use them yourself… ah, here we are.”

Tuc fished out a small strong box from beneath several sacks that had been pinned under a toppled stack of wooden crates. He fished the correct key from the loop on his belt and unlocked the small metal box. Cobra, meanwhile, surveyed the mountain of boxes and baskets for a moment as Tuc struggled to work the key in the lock. Finally, Tuc popped the box lid open and returned to the group with a small pouch that clattered as he handled it.

“If you wish to count them out I won’t be offended,” said Tuc as he held the back out, waiting for someone to take it. “It’s not much, I know, but feel free to pick through the goods here and select something as a supplement to cover the payment we agreed on before leaving.” Midnight took the bag from Tuc with a nod of the head and worked the drawstring open to begin counting the small wooden disks. Each with a faded pattern of paint, worn through time and handling. The flat of the disk was stamped with a hot brand that imprinted the image of a domed structure topped by a large cylindrical object on one side, the other was likewise stamped with the brand that looked like a large looping series of rails with an old steam train in the middle.

A few moments of silence passed as Midnight checked the contents of the bag before Tuc eventually spoke.

“So, feel free to begin browsing. Plenty to have, at such as…” Tuc quickly selected two items from his jumbled cache of goods. “Such as these?” He continued, further slipping back into the familiar role of a salesman. “A jerry can, to store more fuel in and further extend the range of your… uh, I had always meant to ask actually. Does your imposing vehicle have a name?” Cobra frowned as he took a second’s thought before answering in an uncertain tone.

“Truck?” Beside him, Midnight lowered his head to hide his amused smile. He stepped from the conversation, having finished counting the chips to his satisfaction, and went to inspect the smaller boxes.

“Yes, ok, so your truck could benefit from such an item, or maybe a spare set of tools in his handy carry box?” Cobra scratched his chin for a second.

“I have a full set of tools already, also several fuel cans as well as two tanks in the truck itself. I guess though you can never have too much fuel.” With that decided, Cobra picked the jerry can up and headed to the back of his truck to stow it with the others.

“Ah, yes, very good. Good.” Tuc turned to find Midnight carefully picking his way through the various piles. “Yes please, have a browse and let me know what you have settled on. My time is your time.” Tuc finally turned to Cin who, at some point in the proceedings, had returned to the passenger door of the van and was now walking back to the rear. He carried the assault rifle he had wielded on the road earlier today. “Ah, no need to put it back or anything, feel free to join your friend in selecting your payment.”

“I already have,” replied Cin. To emphasize his point he hefted the rifle up to his chest and patted the frame with his other free hand.

“Ah, uh, yes yes that could be suitable too. Fitting also given you are already familiar with its use. Actually just a moment I have… uh…” Tuc trailed off as he turned to rummage through the mess, looking for the right crate needed to finish his thought. His attention was drawn towards Midnight’s out-stretched hand and the scuffed looking wristwatch it held.

“Is it ok if I take this as my payment,” asked Midnight with his usual smile. Tuc opened his mouth to reply before a voice from the roadside interjected.

“Excuse me,” came the voice behind the group. All heads turned around to the new arrivals, three in total. “I hate to interrupt this transaction, however there is no unlicensed street trading in Cinder Rock.” The woman at the centre of the group addressed them with the practiced calm, clipped tone of someone confident in their authority. A lean face under a faded pale brown baseball cap, with blonde hair tied back in a short ponytail, she wore a well weathered short sleeved bomber jacket over a loose off-white shirt tucked into combat trousers that closely matched the jacket for style. The trousers tucked into a pair of rugged and well worn black hiking boots. The silver star badge displayed prominently on the left breast pocket of the jacket marked her, it seemed, as a member of the town’s law enforcement. Either side of her were two men, one recognisable to the group as Greggins, the gate guard who had assisted in the searches of their vehicles as the group came into town earlier. The other unknown man also wore a badge on his faded green jacket. His dark brown hair was cut short and his jawline square set. He stood as the tallest of the three and was dressed in a similar loose off-white shirt beneath his jacket, khaki combat trousers and trainers that seemed to be held together with duct tape and careful ownership. Between him and the woman it was not quite a uniform but the intended impression of a common appearance seemed to be there. Tuc smiled at the law officers as he spoke first.

“Ah, you misunderstand. You see, we just arrived in town together and I am simply paying my escorts in goods.”

“He did say he was here to trade though, ma’am,” Greggins interjected.

“Yes, indeed. Though I will be seeking to secure a location I have negotiated with Merchant Guild Master Vulpan.”

“I see,” replied the woman, looking between Greggins and the group.

“Was there some issue with our arrival, may I ask?” Asked Midnight as he stepped down from the back of the van. He emphasized his question with a nod to the guard, Greggins. “I only ask as this gentleman was present when we were cleared for entry to the town not half an hour ago, officer…?”

“Chief Marshal Crystal,” she replied with a curt nod. “And this is my second in command, Deputy Marshal Jerry.” She gestured to the square-jawed marshal to her left. “You already know Greggins, as you say. And no issue at all. I ask all the guards to notify me of any new arrivals in town so I can make my introductions.”

“A pleasure,” replied Midnight as the group, including Tuc, sensing it best to let Midnight take over the discussion. “You can call me Midnight. This is Cobra, Cin and our employer, Tuc.” Crystal nodded cordially to all of them. “We may be staying awhile ourselves, just so you are aware, and we intend no trouble while we are here.”

“Do you have accommodation already?” Jerry asked.

“Actually a good friend of mine, by the name of Hog, recommended we speak to a man named Rocky. I believe he owns an inn here in town.” Crystal and Jerry shared a quick look with each other, then back to Midnight.

“You’re not from around here,” remarked Crystal, taking a more cautious tone. “That’s clear. How do you become friends with one of The Skid’s least impressive bikers?”

“Oh, we met on the road into town,” responded Midnight. Crystal gave Jerry a barely noticeable roll of the eyes.

“Let me guess,” continued Jerry, with a small measure of amusement. “He tried to extort a toll from you?”

“I don’t believe he ever mentioned such a thing. We simply chatted on our way into town after we stopped some way out of the mountain pass. He was quite good conversation, really. Then we continued on our way.”

“And now you are ‘good friends’ with Hog,” remarked Crystal. “That was quick.”

“I do tend make friends fast.”

“Well,” said Jerry. “You could do worse than the Black Rock Inn,” He nodded his head towards the next road on the left leading down the slope and continued. “Down that way to the bottom where the road bends round to the left. Sign outside the door so you won’t miss it.” Midnight turned his head the direction Jerry indicated then looked back with a nod of appreciation.

“I need to make some repairs to my truck, too,” interjected Cobra. “Anywhere in town I could find some spare parts and a workspace? Oh, and fuel.”

“Scrapyard near the other gate down the way,” said Crystal, her tone becoming unmistakably sour as she continued. “Only place with fuel in town anyway, if he has any or wants to sell it. But you should be set for parts at least. Though the owner is not too fond of hang arounds as it is.”

“I appreciate your taking the time to welcome us, as well as the directions,” said Midnight.

“Yes, well while you are in Cinder Rock, understand that you are under the protection of the Law Makers.”

“Very gracious.”

“Along with that, understand that we have a low tolerance for self-styled justice here. Any issues should be directed to the Law Makers. If you can do that, and cause no trouble of your own, you’re welcome here.”

“Understood,” replied Midnight, still smiling. Crystal gave them all one last look over before turning back the way she came and headed for the road leading down the slope, Jerry following her. Greggins broke off from them to return to his post at the gate.

“Well, that was pleasant,” Cobra said with a grin once Crystal was out of sight.

“They were quite polite,” responded Midnight.

“Oh I know, I wasn’t being sarcastic. Plus she was pretty.” Cobra continued to grin at Midnight who responded with a short snort of laughter before returning to Tuc.

“So, the watch?” Midnight resumed his inquiry with Tuc who looked at him and the watch again, his mind quickly pulling back onto the previous track of conversation.

“Oh, yes of course. Actually, I was going to see about trading the various items of jewelry to a man at the market who deals in them. Clear my inventory a little so to speak. I am going to need to specialize somewhat given the various traders already filling different markets here.”

“Excellent,” responded Midnight and headed back to the truck. Cin followed suit before Tuc held a hand up to him.

“Ah, I almost forgot,” he said to Cin. “Just a moment.” Tuc scrambled back to the crate he had barely uncovered before Crystal arrived, and retrieved two items from it before turning back to Cin. “Here, you should take these too.” He held out a box of 100 rounds of ammunition for the assault rifle stacked on top of two spare empty clips. “Now normally I would charge extra for these, and the rifle as well since it is worth a lot more than the agreed medium. But I want you to have them as a gift from me. A thank you for doing a great job protecting me back there.”

“OK, sure,” replied Cin without hesitation, grabbing the items with his free hand.

“Excellent!” Tuc beamed at his gesture’s acceptance as Cin walked past him to join the others at the truck. “Well then, gentlemen, it has been a pleasure and I hope to see you all again after I get my store up and running.” Tuc returned to his van and closed the back doors with an enthusiastic slam and turned to offer his hand to the three. Midnight shook his hand first with a cordial nod of the head before Tuc turned to Cobra who was resuming his inspection of the truck, not even noticing the gesture. Tuc bypassed him for a moment and headed toward Cin who had already stored his new rifle with his pack on the back seat. Cin finally shook Tuc’s hand after an awkward pause between the two. Tuc’s smile returned as Cin turned back to making space for himself in the back of the truck, Tuc now firmly out of his mind again. Tuc turned to leave as Cobra stepped back from the truck, finally noticing him again and giving him a quick and friendly slap to the shoulder.

“See ya’ round,” Cobra said and headed for the driver side of his truck. As he climbed aboard his SUV, Tuc vanished into his van and turned off the open lot, his engine rattling like a large tin can full of pebbles tumbling down a hill. Cobra winced at the sound before turning to Midnight and Cin who were standing by the open passenger door. “So, remind me what we got paid again?” Midnight pulled the pouch from his coat pocket and hefted it in his hand. The dull clink of wooden chips could be heard inside.

“We got seventeen chips. And our wonderful goods, of course.”

“I’m gonna likely need some for the repairs,” remarked Cobra. “I’m not liking the look of the rear suspension struts after that fight today.”

“Haven’t eaten today either,” added Cin.

“And we need rooms for the night or we pitch our tents somewhere in town,” sighed Midnight, though his smile was undiminished. “Well, it’s a good thing I have other forms of currency.” Midnight withdrew a few of the chips from the pouch before tying it back up and tossing to Cobra.

“I will go secure us some lodgings,” Midnight said, turning to leave. “I will meet you all there later.” Midnight excused himself with a nod and turned the direction Jerry had given.

“Get the first round of drinks in!” Cobra shouted through his window as Midnight walked down the road.

“It won’t be that easy without much money,” Midnight shouted back over his shoulder. “But my new friend, Hog, gave me some information that might help with the rooms.” He turned his head back down the road and gave them a wave over his shoulder. Cin, meanwhile, has climbed up into the passenger side of the SUV and shut the door.

“I guess we will need to make some kind of deal at the scrapyard,” said Cobra, now realizing he was no better off money wise. Cin nodded slowly, staring out the front window. Cobra fired up the engine, still rumbling smooth despite the skirmish on the mountain pass.

At the other end of the road, around a couple of hundred meters from the forecourt, Cobra’s SUV trundled slowly through the open chain-link gate. The broken rubble ground of the scrapyard entrance, perhaps once upon a time a smooth road surface, crunched under the knobbly tires. The fence line stretched away in both directions, eventually turning round to link with the main town wall in the north. The area ahead of the gate was an open patch of land, the far side directly ahead of them dominated by a large mobile crane. To the left was a cluster of buildings, piled on top of each other like a clutch of insect eggs. A balcony stretched out from the second level and timber stairs snaked down the front of the structure. The door at the top looked to be open, though the room beyond was too dark so make anything out this far away. The open lot stretched off to the right and was lined with several large sheds, each big enough to fit a vehicle inside. All but one of them, the closest to the entrance, were locked with chain and padlock. Cobra pulled up short of the open shed and killed the engine. The place seemed deserted as he and Cin stepped down from the SUV.

“No welcome committee,” commented Cobra, joining Cin at the front of the truck. Cin simply grunted and cocked his head a little, as if listening.

“Over here,” Cin said after several seconds, and gestured toward the open shed, his attention drew there by the dull sound of metal being tapped by a hammer. The doors were held either side by chocks of wood wedged against the frame. At this angle, they could not see inside, though the occasional clank of tools could be heard. Cobra glanced at the large crane at the far end of the lot as they walked towards the open shed. It was heavily rusted and looked to have not been used for some years. The joints of the articulating arm were stained with old oil which had seeped through cracks in the heavy gear housing. The hydraulic pistons along the broad arms filthy with congealed fluids that had escaped from the cylinders. The tracks beneath were also broken in places, though no links were missing.

The metal is still strong. In pain, though… Cobra blinked, his attention brought back to the sheds as the sound of light hammering issued from the open door with a sense of renewed vigour. He had not even noticed he had stopped walking. Cin had been waiting patiently as Cobra stared at the crane.

“Sorry,” said Cobra, resuming his walk.

“Day dreaming again?” Asked Cin, his voice flat.

“Something like that.” Cin nodded silently in response as they came around to the front of the open shed. A small engine block rested on a heavy metal table which was draped with several layers of oil-stained canvas. Another bench along the side wall was similarly adorned with the small components that complete it. Gasket heads, pistons, cylinders, cam belts and a plethora of various nuts and hex bolts arranged into neat piles beside screwdrivers and torque wrenches. The frame of a bike sat on a long trolley parked against the opposite wall and two wheels rested beside it. Another small tray of nuts, bolts and fixtures sat beside them. Folded over the frame was a leather vest with a logo stitched on the back matching the bikers on the road earlier today. A man stood with his back to the door, his overalls stained from his work. His jet black hair, long enough to reach just below the neck, was held back behind his ears as he bent over the block. His left hand struggled with something out of sight as his right hand tapped a soft mallet against it with barely restrained patience.

“Stubborn fucking bolt!” Cursed the man as his hands continued to work.

“Excuse me,” interjected Cobra. The man set down his tools and sighed, his back still to the pair.

“What do you want?”

“Do you work here?” Asked Cobra. The man turned to look at them both. He stood just over six foot. He had a thick handlebar mustache and black hair held back by a bandana. His face was thin and angular with a sharp jawline. He was not heavy built though his arms were ropy with lean muscle, and his face was a mask of frustration.

“Does it look like I do?” The question hung in the air between them a few moments.

“Eh, so my name is Cobra. I…”

“The correct answer is, I don’t,” interrupted the man with a sigh. He walked towards the pair at the door as he spoke. “Make a hole.” Cobra quickly sidestepped while Cin simply turned a little, glaring at the man. If he noticed it he did not show it.

“Eh, sorry. I…”

“DAD!” The man shouted towards the large clump of buildings, interrupting Cobra again. “Customers!” He turned and stomped back to the shed, Cobra dancing out of his way once more.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he ventured.

“Didn’t give it.” The man replied curtly, taking up the mallet again.

How does Midnight do this? Thought Cobra. He turned to look at Cin who was still impassive. Cobra took in a deep breath and let it out slowly as they both returned to their SUV. Another figure eventually lumbered into view, making his way steadily down the snaking stairs from the upper platform. He gave the impression of an old mountain bear emerging from its cave after hibernation. Long ruffled gray hair and a thick salt and pepper coloured beard stretching down as far as the man’s ample stomach and was almost as broad as his chest which, despite his girth at the stomach, seemed to be heavily built with the muscle of hard manual work. His shoulders looked solid and his arms were best described as ‘thick’. He wore a sleeveless denim jacket and a pale brown tshirt, or at least it was pale brown now. His trousers were gray camo patterned with cargo pockets and he wore heavy looking boots. He lowered himself down step by step, taking more care with one leg than the other, drawing attention to the homemade brace strapped to his right knee. Once on even ground, he walked with the burden of a limp that favoured his left leg.

“Sorry folks,” he began, taking deep breaths as he continued to speek. “Didn’t hear you roll in.” His eyes fell to the large armoured SUV sitting just inside the gate as he spoke.

“That’s ok,” replied Cobra. “We haven’t been here long.”

“Grits,” the man said, holding out a hand the size of a shovelhead. Cobra stepped forward and shook it.

“Cobra. And this is Cin.” Grits looked Cin up and down briefly before giving him a nod. To Cobra’s surprise, Cin returned the gesture.

“I see you folks took a beating out there.” Grits motioned to the SUV, pockmarked with bullet impacts, dents and scratches from the skirmish earlier today.

“I would appreciate somewhere to park up and do some repairs.” Cobra looked around at the sheds again and back to Grits. “You appear to be the place for that.” Grits nodded and ran his hand through his beard as he spoke.

“I got tools and workbenches, jacks and engine lifts, not to mention plenty of spare parts.” Grits motioned to the huge mounds of scrap piled behind the sheds and the racks of salvaged parts around and behind the main building. “Question is do you have a means to pay?”

“Well, we’re gonna be in town for a while and looking to earn some money while we’re here.” Grits frowned at this.

“So, you guys got chips to pay with?”

“We just came in from the Four Cities.” Cobra paused, waiting for Grits to understand what he meant before realizing he would not know yet. “Ah yeah, I guess word hasn’t spread yet. The four are at war now. We had to grab what we could and get out pretty quick.” Grits nodded slowly, a frown crossing his face.

“We helped a trader friend of ours move here,” clarified Cobra.

“He’s your friend,” Cin replied.

“Oh come now, you telling me you two didn’t form a lasting bond while you rode shotgun in his van?”

“No.” Cobra laughed and turned back to Grits.

“Anyway,” he continued, “He paid us a little, the rest in barter.”

“I only take chips as payment,” replied Grits, his voice firm.

“Well…” Cobra mulled it over a little, wishing Midnight was here to work his silver tongue gift. “OK, how much are we talking? What’s the going rate”

“Just a chip a day for the shed and access to tools. Plus the price of parts if you need any, which vary and are negotiable. So just come see me when you pick something and we’ll work it out.”

“I also need fuel,” pointed out Cobra.

“Three chips a liter.”

“Uh, OK. Sounds, um…”

“Expensive,” mumbled Cin.

“Haha,” Grits laughed in response. “Supply and demand. And I got the only supply.” Grits seemed almost shameless in his boasting.

“It’s fine Cin,” responded Cobra. “Midnight might be able to get us some work here while I fix up the truck. And I still have some reserve at least. We can work our way to a full tank.” With that seemingly decided, Cobra withdrew the pouch from his jacket pocket and began counting out the last chips they had. “I’ll only need the shed and tools as a minimum, I guess. At least for now. How about five days worth?”

“Settled,” said Grits, grinning beneath his thick beard as he took the chips from Cobra’s out-stretched hand. He then shook hands with Cobra once more, then turned to Cin and gave him a short nod again before heading towards the sheds, withdrawing a bundle of keys from a pocket inside his jacket as he went.

“You can use this one here. Should be big enough for that beast you drive, and has all the tools you will need.” Grits unlocked the shed and turned to face Cobra and Cin. “You guys need anything else, feel free to ask. Also, I lock the front gate at six every evening until eight the next morning, no exceptions. So if you need anything from your truck you should take it with you now.”

“Understood,” Cobra replied. Grits gave him a nod once more before turning to the only other open shed.

“Hey, Jester!” Grits shouted, marching towards the open door. The loud clatter of tools being set down in a pile was followed by the biker emerging from his workspace, an oily rag in hand as he wiped off the grease. His expression was the very essence of annoyance. “Well, don’t smile on our account. How’s your charger coming along?”

“Pissing me off,” he snarled. “Should be done by tonight, though.” The biker let out a sigh.

“Well, take a break and come inside. Have a beer with your old man. Need to talk about something before you go back to the Carousel.” Jester looked between Cobra and Cin, his face still burdened with a frown, before walking towards the office building with Grits.

“Well,” said Cobra after a few moments. He turned to Cin and, after getting no response, headed to his SUV. “Guess I’ll bring the truck over and tuck her in for the night.”

“Midnight better have got us some rooms,” Cin muttered.

“Oh cheer up,” responded Cobra, stepping up to the SUV’s driver side door. “I saved us a few chips there. See how I negotiated? We can at least have a couple of drinks tonight.” Cin slowly shook his head as Cobra fired up the engine and began turning the SUV around to reverse into the shed.

Midnight found the Inn easily enough, mainly thanks in part to the street itself which was little more than a compacted dirt trail which ran mostly straight down the hill without any branching paths. Either side of the road and was stacked with roughly-built shacks that seemed to lean on each other for support. Midnight mused that the quality of construction aside, they had done exceptionally well to build along the slope of The Skid with what they had. Even though the slope itself was quite gentle it was still steep enough for one of these structures to roll down if something gave way. Unlike the Four Cities, which were built upon the ruins of old world settlements where some structures were still upright enough to support new ones, it seemed the people of Cinder Rock had built from almost nothing other than scraps of ruined buildings salvaged in whatever had caused the enormous scar on the land. Beside the upside-down ship, which still confused him a little, the only signs of the old world seemed to be the few buildings along the top road where they entered the town itself. Around half-way down the slope of The Skid itself, the road finally curved to the left and the Inn was on the right-hand side of the road at the corner.

He headed for the only door he could see, assuming it was the front entrance. The building was two floors high from the road level, with a shallow sloped roof. A sign hung beside the door, little more than a bare plank of wood with the words ‘Black Rock Inn’ displayed in faded black paint. Attached to two dull-looking brass hooks beneath was a second, smaller plank reading ‘Always Open, All Day and Night!’ in red lettering. Midnight stepped through the door into a room that was dimly lit with a mixture of oil lamps, lumpy candles and the odd string of light bulbs. Some bare and some different colours, they hung over what seemed to be the bar along the far left wall. At the opposite side of the room from this entrance was another door leading out onto what seemed to be some kind of veranda, though the difference in light made it hard to tell for sure. To Midnight’s right were some stairs which ascended to the upper floor. A faded and rusted metal sign was bolted to the wall reading ‘Rooms’. Several tables dotted the floor space ahead of him, none of them currently occupied at this time, though voices drifted around the room from somewhere to the right where the floor ended with a balcony. Beyond the balcony was a third lower floor and ahead of him, next to the open door at the back, was another staircase along the back wall leading down. The bar itself seemed to be another source of noise as a light and rapid metallic tapping occasionally gave way to murmured invective.

Midnight took a moment to wander around between the mostly vacant tables and took in the layout of the building. It seemed most people were congregating on the lower level, and there was another door along the back wall leading outside, just below the stairwell. Two men were playing a game of darts in one corner of the room while other patrons sat at several tables in small groups no more than three. In all around a dozen people spread around the large space.

“Afternoon,” came a voice from behind. Midnight turned to the bar as a man emerged from behind, wrench in hand. “Sorry, didn’t see you there.”

“Good afternoon,” responded Midnight. “Having a little trouble?”

“Oh, the damn tap is stuck again. Fifth time this month. Wish I could get a new one.”

“I imagine that is less than easy.” Midnight smiled as he approached the bar.

“You have no idea. Anyway, I’m Rocky. Owner of this bar. What can I get ya’?” Rocky was a thin and older man with hands like worn leather. His bar apron was dull and stained with faint patches where he habitually wiped his hands as he worked. His thin graying hair was brushed back close to his scalp.

“I’m told you have rooms,” responded Midnight.

“Indeed I do. Rooms and food at a set price.”

“I will need three of them,” Midnight continued. “However, in the interest of being completely earnest, there is an issue of payment standing in the way.” Midnight summarized their arrival in town from the escort job, and the subsequent disappointment of payment. Rocky kept his face impassive and nodded through the retelling.

“Why’d you guys leave The Four?” asked Rocky.

“Are you familiar with the… political situation there?” Rocky furrowed his brow a little and tilted his head.

“Eh, somewhat. Three warlords in charge of four cities built right on top of each other.”

“Well, one of the warlords now has three.Or, at least, it was about to end that way when we got out.”

“Which one?” Rocky asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Malachai.” The air between them grew somber as several seconds of silence followed. Rocky knew Malachai as the warlord leader of a cult known as The Spring Watchers. To call him a warlord may be an overstatement or unjust generalization to some people who would describe Malachai as a harmless prophet for his religion. Others might describe him as a cult leader, and the people of his portion of The Four Cities obeyed the tenants of their religion as a strict fact of life. One of which was a vow of silence with outsiders. Whatever the other religious strictures were people could only guess. A small quarter of the city was portioned for those dedicated to dealing with outsiders, and the only area outsiders may go to trade and conduct diplomatic contact. Diplomats were the only ones permitted by Malachai himself to speak to others, and only with other appointed representatives to the other two warlords.

“Do I even want to know more?” Asked Rocky.

“I’m not sure I want to know what I already know,” Midnight replied, uncharacteristically somber. “It got really bad real fast after Sable’s city fell. Thankfully we were half out of the door already, so to speak.” Again, the air grew still.

“I would not put it that way. We plan to stay around here for a while, that much is true. And we intend to earn our way. I was wondering if you could extend some kind of credit to us. At least for the rooms. I have some chips on me for food and drink tonight.”

“Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate your issue here. I don’t want to turn people out into the cold after something like that.”

“I understand, however, a very good friend of mine told me you were seeking to hire people to fix a problem and he was willing to vouch for us.”

“Oh? And who would that be?”

“A biker who goes by the name Hog.”

“Hog?!” Rocky exclaimed, an amused smile on his face. “Hog… vouches for you?”

“Yes, I know he is quite the amusing character. As you know, though, he is mostly harmless.”

“Well, that is true to a point. If you know him as you say, you know why I would laugh at the idea his vouching for anyone carries weight.”

“Oh no, not a chance. I’m not messing with the Hand of Doom. I got a good thing going with them that keeps this place running. I’m not standing for your rooms with their cut of the profits.”

“I don’t expect you to. I expect Hog to stand for the room, and he answers to you. With the club at your back.” Rocky stared hard at Midnight, weighing this option up. “I assure you, Hog understands this fully, too. Like I said, we are friends. This was entirely his idea.”

“I see,” Rocky said evenly.

“As to what we can do for you in the meantime. I gather you have a missing person you wish tracked down. And a debt that needs repaying.”

Cobra stumbled down the slope, cursing as he struggled for balance under the weight of his large travel bag slung over his shoulder. At first glance, it was not all that steep, until you carry all that you own on your back. He counted his blessing they were not heading up the hill while making a mental note to keep an eye out in the future for some kind of barrow or trolley. To his left, Cin kept pace with him while hauling two near equally large bags on his own back with the poise of a man who could comfortably make quicker time down the slope.

“You sure you don’t need a hand?” asked Cobra, maintaining his shambling trek down hill. “It’s not fair for you to carry Midnight’s stuff, too.”

“It’s fine.” replied Cin with his customary monotone voice.

“You can go on ahead, you know,” Cobra continued a moment later. “I’ll be fine.”

“You seem to be,” Cin responded.

“Ha,” Cobra said, half-laughing and half-panting. “Yeah, it’s not that far, I guess.” Within a few minutes, they found the entrance to the Black Rock Inn. Cobra let the bag slide off his shoulder and to the floor with a heavy thud.

“This is it, I guess,” he said.

“I guess,” replied Cin as headed through the open doorway. Cobra reached down and heaved the pack over his shoulder once more, regretting having let it fall as he grunted with effort while struggling to return it to its former position. He quickly gave in, content to simply grab the straps and drag the pack along the ground as he followed Cin inside.

“Let’s hope Midnight has worked something out. I really need to lay down.”

Cobra followed Cin through the room and towards what they determined to be the bar. A man stood wiping down the last of the washed glasses stacked by the basin along the back wall. He seemed to give them both an appraising look as they approached, set the mug down and planted both hands on the bar.

“Well I suppose you would be friends of Midnight,” he said matter of factly.

“Yes,” replied Cobra, letting go of his pack once more. “I see he’s already dropped by.” Cobra turned a little as he spoke and quickly scanned the room before turning back to the barman.

“He’s downstairs,” the man answered the unspoken question as he held out his hand to them both. “The name’s Rocky.”

“Cobra,” he said, shaking his hand and turning to Cin. “This is Cin.” Rocky held his hand out a moment before realizing no return gesture was forthcoming from the masked man, given his hands were still full of luggage. He nodded to Cin instead and reached beneath the bar, withdrawing a key from the hooks below and placed it on the table.

“Afraid you boys are gonna have to share for a couple of days at least.” Cobra and Cin glanced at each other slowly. “Sorry fellas, only had two rooms available for now. Might have someone checking out soon, unless he pays up a couple more days. You’ll get first dibs on it when it’s free. If you can pay, that is.” Rocky gave a shrug.

“Good thing we have sleeping bags,” said Cobra with a thin smile, attempting to inject some humour into the situation. He eventually turned to Rocky and took the key. “I understand, it’s fine. Thanks”

“You got the rooms for a week, then you gotta pay up or you’re out. That’s the deal I worked out with Midnight. You want to stay beyond that you pay up front. Should give you boys time to get on your feet here in town. I’ll let your friend fill you in on the rest.”

“Alright,” Cobra replied.

“Meal service is in an hour. Should give you time to get settled. Welcome to Cinder Rock boys.” Rocky took up the dishcloth once more and turned his attention back to the small stack of mugs still draining on the sideboard. Cobra took the key and turned to Cin.

“Guess we lug these upstairs then go find Midnight.”

“You go, I got these,” he replied, hauling Cobra’s bag on his other free shoulder with enviable ease.

Cobra found Midnight on the lower level sitting at a table near the two men playing darts, watching the game with casual interest and a glass of pale looking beer in front of him. He spotted Cobra as he reached the bottom of the stairs and gave a lazy wave before returning his attention to the game.

“I see you got the rooms sorted out,” Cobra said, pulling a chair out for himself. He turned it around and sat leaning against the backrest.

“Indeed, sorry about the sharing situation,” Midnight responded. “We can figure out who shares with who later. Cin isn’t with you?”

“He’s putting the stuff in the room. He’ll be down soon.”

“You brought my stuff from the truck? How kind.”

“Kinda had to.” Midnight tilted his head inquisitively. Cobra filled Midnight in on the situation with the SUV and the salvage yard, as well as the need to bring the stuff they need before the gates lock for the evening. As well as the cost factor.

“It would seem we are going to need money soon,” observed Midnight.

“Speaking of,” continued Cobra. “I suspect we have signed on for a little more than owing for the rooms.”

“Correct,” replied Midnight, waving across the room again as Cin descended the stairs. “And now our comrade is joining us I can fill you both in.”

“How’s the room?” Asked Cobra as Cin pulled another chair out for himself.

“It has a bed,” deadpanned Cin. “So that’s a start.” Cin dropped into the chair and swung a leg up onto the table edge.

“So, allow me to detail the conditions of our accommodation,” continued Midnight. “We are not staying here on good faith credit alone. It seems a prior patron of this establishment took significant advantage of that and has since vanished.”

“So we’re debt collectors?” Asked Cobra.

“Well, not quite. The debt is significant, yes. And Rocky would appreciate it being settled, no doubt. However, there is a more personal factor for our good landlord.”

“Such as?” Cin asked.

“The man we are looking for is called Donnahugh. Or just ‘Donny’ to some. He is also Rocky’s nephew and has not been seen in some weeks. A missing person bulletin was posted with the Lawmakers in town and has turned up nothing so far. So it is likely he is no longer in Cinder Rock.”

“So how much is Rocky paying us to track down lost family members?” Cin asked again.

“He is forgoing the charge for the rooms and food up front for one week.” Midnight paused for a few seconds before Cobra broke the silence.

“And?”

“That’s all,” Midnight responded, leaning back in his chair again with an easy-going smile.

“Well,” Cin said. “That sucks.”

“We need money to pay Grits at the salvage yard for fuel before we can take the truck anywhere significant,” Cobra pointed out. “I have maybe forty miles of fuel at a push in the reserve tank.”

“And Donny is, in all likelihood, no longer in town. I see the dilemma here.”

“And we still need to pay for the rooms in a week’s time,” Cobra said.

“Might as well have slept in the truck,” Cin deadpanned.

“And I should mention if we don’t settle our bill, then one of the biggest gangs in The Skid will be unhappy with us. They own a stake in this Inn and one of their members has been good enough to vouch for us.” Midnight continued to smile as he disclosed this final piece of information. Cobra lowered his head onto the table and groaned loudly.

“At least we have comfortable beds,” Cobra said after a moment of quiet.

“Two of them,” Cin corrected, soliciting another groan from Cobra.

“Come now, it’s not all bad. We have a week and plenty of options in town. An odd job here and there. If it comes to it we can sell some stuff at the local market. And meanwhile, we have food and a roof over our heads.”

“Yeah I guess,” said Cobra as he lifted his head from the table again.

“We’re all tired,” continued Midnight. “It’s been a long day. We should rest up and look at it all again tomorrow.”

“So,” said Cobra, eventually picking his head off the table. “Who’s gonna share a room with who?”

The evening progressed as the Black Rock Inn filled with townsfolk in time for the food service. The length of the line spoke to its popularity as a long serving table, situated beneath the overhanging second floor balcony, was quickly filled with trays and large cooking pots containing several different food options. A young man and an older woman, both with food-stained aprons, stood behind the table and served the customers two at a time, each one handing over a small round wooden chit, bought at the bar, or showing their guest keys. Drinks accompanied the meal, served from a secondary bar that had opened beside the food tables. Their guest pass allowed them a drink each as part of the meal service, while other customers needed to pay.

The three filled up on food and, with the exception of Midnight, turned in early. Midnight busied himself after the meal circulating the room, making introductions to various townsfolk with the practiced ease of a dedicated socialite. The night wound down as all but the heavily inebriated found the doors and staggered out into the lamp-lit darkness. Those less able were eventually assisted into the night, having been roused from their sleep by way of a good-natured kick to their chair leg. Midnight, too, ascended the stairs to his room and turned in for the evening.

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2016/11/28/skid-journals-d1-p3/feed/0Progress, progress bars and project updateshttp://vandeamon.com/2016/07/09/progress-progress-bars-and-project-updates/
http://vandeamon.com/2016/07/09/progress-progress-bars-and-project-updates/#respondSat, 09 Jul 2016 20:05:31 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=112Read More]]>It has been a while since I blogged anything so here is a quick update on the ongoing projects I have as well as a little tweak to the site here and there.

Let’s start with that last one first. Up until recently, I have only been working on one thing at a time, first with The Skid Journals parts 1-1 and 1-2, then re-editing 1-1 and republishing as per my previous blog entry. However, I recently began writing a second short story along with part 1-3 of The Skid Journals. More on this below. So, with this dual project on the go, I felt it was time to start tracking them on the site. And going forward for any future works I have on my table. I have added a progress bar plugin to the sidebar to track ongoing projects and started with the first two and their current states. I was not really able to find any that fully matched what I am looking for, given that my writing is not set to any specific goal in terms of length or content other than getting it done. I was not sure how exactly I would gauge the level of completion of any of my stories and represent them in one single bar. Overall I view my writing to be a three stage process. First is the outline, where I scribble down a note form of the flow of the story. Second, I begin working on the draft for the story, essentially padding out the outline, and usually changing stuff along the way on a small scale as the narrative takes shape more naturally. Finally, I proofread the story giving it two passes of editing. The first focusing mostly on grammar and punctuation and the second pass being a readability check making adjustments to wording and such. With the single progress bar, it is difficult to track this other than estimating the volume of workload represented by each section. It’s not as difficult as it sounds, though, and I feel I know my own writing well enough to quantify my own progress.

With that, onto the projects displayed on the new project tracker. Starting with the next installment of The Skid Journals. Progress has been a little slower than the previous parts given one reason or another, one of them being the second ongoing project requiring some detailed planning before I got started. Another reason for this is the current story having little in the way of action for me to sink my teeth into, and I find myself a little out of practice writing the back and forth of things when no one is shooting at anyone else. Having said that, part 1-3 following on from the group having made it to the town on the edge of The Skid, part 1-3 will give me a good setting to introduce several more characters to the story and close out part 1 entirely before the story truly gets started. Also, I will not lie, motivation to write this part or anything at all has been lacking somewhat this last month as some life decisions have weighed on my mind lately, though I forced myself to make a decent amount of progress padding out the first part of the outline. As I did I found my flow returning that day and got a decent amount done. Despite having a second story on my plate at this time, part 1-3 of The Skid Journals is my primary project which I will aim to complete before fully tackling the new story project.

So let’s talk about that one now. A while ago I came up with a good story premise that sank into my brain one evening while watching a TV series called Man in the High Castle. Which, by the way, I highly recommend. Occasionally I will have an idea for one scene in a story. It might be in the middle of the story, it might be the very ending. This one turned out to be the ending and felt like a good short story to tackle for a section I plan to begin on this site called the Scrapbook. However as I have delved deeper into this scene I have seen the potential for something bigger than what I intended the scrapbook to be. Ferum Republic is a story set in a steampunk-like setting. I have heard the term ironpunk muttered here and there, and some people say there is no difference between the two. However, it feels to me this is a much more accurate description for this theme than steampunk could be. It is hard to separate the two ultimately but this is what I am going with. It is a story of a power struggle in a fictitious despotic military republic in which snakes in the grass seek to grab power and further provoke war. The only thing standing in their way is a highly venerated retired war hero.

Working on this new project has enabled me to indulge in a little world building, something I am always keen on. One such challenge is setting thematically fitting names for people and places, which I always enjoy working on. Also, the facets of the world and its settings such as religion, social structure, external politics and their history with each other right down to the ethnic groups spread across the world. Or at least this one portion of it where the story takes place. So I think you can see why this one scrapbook story is becoming something much larger for me. I am not sure at this point if it will become a series, or if I will write several parts and cap it off at the end scene that spawned this whole idea. I will see where I can take it though I will likely not debut this in the scrapbook now and fall back on one of my other ideas afterward.

Well, that is all I have for now. Thanks for reading and I look forward to getting both of these projects out for you all to enjoy.

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2016/07/09/progress-progress-bars-and-project-updates/feed/0The Skid Journals 1-1 – Blue Skies, Broken Roadshttp://vandeamon.com/2016/05/01/skid-journals-d1-p1/
http://vandeamon.com/2016/05/01/skid-journals-d1-p1/#respondSun, 01 May 2016 17:54:40 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=43Read More]]>The broken and patchy road, snaking through the mountain range, seemed more determined to shake their vehicles apart with each rapidly passing mile. Both engines protested as their drivers attempted to encourage more speed from them: one, the haggard and sickly rattle of an aged beast of burden, fighting for each yard it travelled; the other, a throaty bellow of a well-cared-for and faithful companion, taking the uphill journey in its stride. Some way behind them, several higher-pitched growls filled the air, gaining ground with the steady determined pace of committed predators.

Cobra jerked the wheel to the right again before pulling back to the left. One of the three pursuers, a dune buggy of some old pre-Starfall design, locked its wheels as the driver jammed the brakes on to avoid the side-swipe from the larger SUV. The three assailants were from a war gang called the Bisons, as evident from the tattered banner trailing behind the buggy depicting a horned skull pattern emblazoned in dull red ink the colour of dried blood. The Bisons claimed a large tract of badland near the entrance to the mountain road. Just ahead of Cobra’s truck, the lumbering faded-green van they were escorting struggled with the rough road surface. Behind, as the buggy recovered from its skid, the other two pickup trucks closed the distance.

“You see the one on the left?” asked Midnight, tightly gripping the handle mounted to the door frame.

“I see it,” replied Cobra. “Harpoon.”

“Can it hook us?”

“That shit will just bounce off the plating, but it will rip into Tuc Tuc’s van easy enough. He’s their target, we’re in the way.”

“Don’t let Tuc hear you calling him that, you know he hates that nickname,” chuckled Midnight as he slipped his hand into his long coat, withdrawing three thin throwing knives.

“Need to get you a gun one day,” mumbled Cobra, barely heard over the engine noise. “OK, ready?” He let a grin creep along his lips, his eyes fixed on the two assailants in his mirror as they split wide and surged forward.

He didn’t wait for Midnight to respond before jerking the wheel to the right then quickly back to the left once more. Then he jammed on the handbrake and swapped his feet from brake and clutch back to accelerator. His hands expertly negotiated the dual tasks of spinning the wheel one-handed while swapping gears on the shifter. The world was a blur for the next 180 degrees ending suddenly with the sight of the two pursuing trucks filling the windscreen. Cobra stomped on the gas, now in reverse gear. The truck previously to the right rear evaded off road with a screech of tires and plenty of pale blue smoke as their target now faced the wrong way, and was in front of them. The harpoon truck on the other side tried to slide by on the right, passing Midnight’s window.

Midnight’s right hand was a whisper as one after another, three slivers of light leapt between the two trucks. The space within the target’s cabin filled with a strangled, gurgling cry, and a spray of blood.

“Can’t this heap go any faster?” came the muffled voice of Cin as he leaned close over Tuc’s right shoulder. Cin was an imposing sight if only for the mask covering the bottom half of his face. The mask was a simple fine mesh painted black with a bare metal pattern the shape of several lightning bolts. Cin’s head was framed with ruffled and twisted light brown hair hanging just past his cheeks. Peering between the haggard curtains of his hair were two sunken yet sharp-looking grey eyes.

“We’re ca…carrying a lot…a lot of, y’know, stuff,” croaked Tuc.

“Yeah, so? We just hit the downhill stretch! More weight equals more speed right?”

“I’m uhm…well, I’m more worried about the sharp corners with…steep drops or jagged rock faces alongside. And stopping at the bottom.”

Cin emitted a low grumble that seemed to Tuc like his whole head had groaned in frustration. Cin quickly vacated the space over Tuc’s shoulder and began rummaging among the crates in the back.

“Hey, now, be careful there!”

“Any guns in this heap of crap? I need something to shoot with.”

“What? I mean…yes, somewhere…right side crates maybe?”

“Ah, found something. Never mind,” replied Cin.

“Where are your own weapons?” asked Tuc. The response came three heavy footsteps later as something spiky tapped his shoulder several times. Tuc quickly glanced to the side at the business end of a length of compact chainsaw.

“This is how I normally do business,” deadpanned Cin. “Not like waving this around from the back of the truck is going to do much good.”

Tuc spared a glance back at his passenger. despite not being particularly large in build Cin seemed to be able to loom over him all the same, somehow seeming to fill the entire back of the van.

Behind them came the screech of tires again, this time louder and more drawn out, as if competing to be heard over the roaring engines. Cin marched to the back door of the van, checked the assault rifle and several magazines he looted from the assorted crates, and swung one of the rear doors open in time to see the pickup truck to the right careen off the road. Cin took only a moment longer to realise he was seeing the back of Cobra’s armoured SUV. Should anyone have had a clear view of Cin’s face they would have been treated to a rare sight as he raised an eyebrow in surprise. The expression lived and died a brief life of its own as the cloud of grey-brown dust left by the now absent truck to the left rapidly parted.

“That’ll keep them busy!” exclaimed Cobra. As confidently as before, he executed another perfect J-turn and put his truck back the right way around, then smoothly slotted a gear in place. The engine thrummed in response as they began to catch up with their charge.

Behind, to their right, the buggy burst through the dust cloud left by the evading pickup truck, the engine rasping like a hive of angry bees. Speed was on its side now as the armoured SUV fought to regain momentum. A hail of bullets crashed along the right flank of Cobra’s SUV as the buggy’s passenger, now standing up through the open roof, opened up with his SMG. Midnight ducked down to his left, away from the raking path of bullets. Cobra willed more power from his iron-clad steed.

Cobra held the wheel steady, keeping the target in line for Cin. He watched as the masked man quickly raised the assault rifle to his shoulder and emptied a full clip towards the buggy and its daredevil passenger, still peppering the side of Cobra’s truck with rapid gunfire. The buggy became a shower of sparks and blood. It veered to the side, slamming into Cobra’s truck before bouncing away. Cobra wrestled with the wheel, fighting against the sudden impact as the buggy leapt away to the right, then swerved sharply left again. He slammed the pedal to the firewall in an attempt to pull ahead of the impending collision.

Too little, too late. Cobra knew it before steel met steel and braced for the skid. The buggy driver was dead on the throttle and slumped over the wheel. It hurled into the rear-right quarter of his SUV like a handball player blitz tackling another way above his weight class. The passenger was still standing through the open roof, wounded from several shots and gripping the roof frame tightly. He recovered his senses in time to be slammed against the side of his former target as the buggy drove its death tackle home. Remorseless steel greeted fragile flesh as the buggy flipped over its nose against the side of the truck. The bandit was bent in half backwards before the buggy tumbled sideways. He, along with his screams, were lost in the twisting ball of metal in the SUV’s wake.

Cobra battled against unrelenting physics to prevent their own slide as the crash shunted the rear end to the left. He turned into the skid, feeding the wheel to the left while keeping the accelerator steady. In the few short seconds of the impact they were pushed a full 45 degrees and more as the buggy cartwheeled behind them. Another moment later the snapback happened. Cobra managed it with skill and calm, feeling the grip of each individual wheel on the road. Cobra felt the world around him slip away as his mind focused intently on the task at hand. Slowly exhaling, Cobra felt the whole world tune out of every sense in his body, reducing it to little more than a dull white noise. At the edge of his consciousness, he felt the distinctive metal presence, as familiar to him as his own body. His mind slipped inside as easily as if stepping through an open door, linking him to the machine.

He felt the momentum building, the traction slipping, the angle of the wheels and the compression of the shocks. The chassis torqued one way and then the other, the center of gravity rolled with the movement, but his foot remained solid on the pedal, keeping it at a level of depression every instinct he had said was correct. It was as natural as breathing, as instinctual as catching a lazily thrown ball. Though, in Cobra’s mind’s eye, it would be more accurately compared to a prize fighter’s instincts. Knowing the direction of an incoming blow without needing to see it, feeling precisely where his own head should be to avoid it while sensing that one vital opening through the opponent’s guard in which to drive his own balled fist.

The truck snapped level again, Cobra already prepared to direct every component of his new metal body as required to find that one opening needed. Cobra’s truck regained its composure and continued straight along the road.

Knock out!

Cin watched from the back of Tuc’s van as Cobra’s truck corrected itself, as if snapping back onto rails, and began to catch them up once again. Further back along the road the two pickups had begun to compose themselves as well, and their chase resumed as the road began to twist between rocky outcrops. He waved towards Cobra and Midnight, attempting to signal the re-approaching danger from behind. Midnight seemed to look around behind the truck, then thrust an upturned thumb in his direction.

“OK assholes,” muttered Cin. “Take your best shot.” Cin braced himself against some of the crates in the back of the van and slammed a fresh clip. He released the catch holding the slide, chambering a fresh round as the van negotiated the next corner, then took his position at the door again. Both pickups raced around the outcropping they had just passed. The truck to the left seemed undamaged still, having evaded Cobra’s maneuver earlier. On the back of the flatbed, clinging to the roll cage, two gunmen waved their own weapons in the air. Cin could swear he could hear their lunatic hooting over the sounds of the various engines echoing around the rock face. The truck to the right also carried its one passenger in the flatbed, strapped in among the extra support piping welded roughly to the body work and roll cage. A large harpoon gun was mounted to this support frame, the piercing end extended out over the roof of the truck’s cab and attached to a length of steel cabling anchored to the underside of the gun’s sponson. Cin depressed the trigger on the assault rifle, filling the back of the van with more empty casings and noise.

The truck to Cobra’s right rear had now pulled level in a bid to strafe their side. Bullets struck armour again as the war gang sought to extract vengeance for their dead friends. Midnight resumed his previous position, ducking down to avoid the fire. Prepared this time, he grabbed the handle just below the window frame and pushed down hard. A latch within the door cavity released its grip on the bracing plate between two spring-loaded pneumatic pushrods, and a sheet of rolled steel slammed upwards in the window frame. Two rows of inch-wide slits cut along the shield afforded the occupants a limited view. All the same, Midnight kept low to avoid any with a mind to find that vital opening. To his left Cobra followed suit, his shield pushing up into place with the force of the spring-loaded mechanisms within the door cavity. A storm of bullets crashed against the dull metal plating with the sound of hollow thunder. To their left, seeking advantage from the distraction, the previously attacked harpoon truck surged forward. Cobra looked back through the slits in his side window at the driver, holding the wheel one-handed while one of Midnight’s knives protruded from his left shoulder. Cobra spared a hand between wrestling with the bumpy road and withdrew his sawed-off shotgun from the holster tucked beneath his steering wheel column. He jammed the stubby barrel of his shotgun through one of the shield’s narrow slits. Gunfire answered gunfire as Cobra squeezed the trigger, unleashing a deadly cloud of lead shot.

While Cobra peppered the side of the harpoon truck, the strafing pickup to their right began to rapidly fill with holes from Cin’s barrage. The windshield of the pickup resembled a spider’s web of cracks and bullet holes, some splattered with the driver’s blood. One of the gunners on top took several hits to the chest and tumbled backwards into the flatbed. The pickup dropped back and swerved off the road as it had before, this time slamming its front right corner into a protruding rock face. The truck somersaulted over itself, hurling the final passenger far overhead before crashing into the harsh crumbled tarmac. Cin had a good view as the bandit broke along the road, cartwheeling several more seconds before mercifully halting almost twenty metres from the wreckage behind.

The harpoon truck’s driver attempted to evade Cobra’s second volley, turning the wheel to the left with his one good arm. It was already too little too late to save the gunner on top, now hung against the roll cage as a useless red mess. The driver pulled the wheel back the other way in a desperate bid to damage their target’s escort, hurling his truck towards the armoured SUV in an attempt to ram it out of the way. Cobra quickly hit the brakes, turning to meet his aggressor’s rear quarter in a mimicry of the careering buggy moments before. Metal crashed against the steel framework around the front bumper of the SUV, folding the truck’s wheel arch like cardboard. The harpoon truck screeched in wounded protest as the bodywork gave way. Cobra jammed the throttle to the floor on impact, his engine roaring over the agonizing cries of his target as he pushed the pickup sideways. The pickup’s wheels locked as the driver failed to control his machine. Cobra continued around the rear of the spinning truck as it wedged one of its front wheels into the deep cracks in the road. The doomed pickup flipped sideways, crushing the corpse harnessed to the harpoon before tumbling again. The truck rolled over several more times, kicking up a cloud of debris, dust and flailing limbs. Cobra kept well left on the road as they pulled around the wreckage before speeding up, catching up with Tuc’s van. In tandem, Midnight and Cobra lowered their side shutters and gave Tuc a thumbs up. He turned to look at them, forcing a smile to his pale and trembling face. Neither of them could quite tell if he was nodding nervously or simply shaking badly.

The road ahead was as bumpy as it had been behind. The road continued to descend through the mountains which began to part ahead of them, signaling the end of the mountain road. Cresting the final rise, they got a good view of their final destination. The land ahead seemed to flatten in an endless and featureless expanse. Only the land closest to the mountains seemed marked and blemished in some way, barely noticeable at this distance. Eventually, the small convoy arrived at the bottom of the mountain road.

The mountains seemed to suddenly end, as though unwilling to intrude further out onto the plains beyond. Passing the final bluffs of rock along the left side of the road, their view suddenly opened up. The mountain range stretched in both directions along the dusty wasteland ahead of them. The road continued ahead, away from the mountains and flanked either side by a dusty expanse of wasteland. In the distance the road looked to fork off to the left, the right fork continuing towards a vague dark smear of land, the road itself petering out before reaching its boundary. Now travelling along flatter land they could see their destination more clearly. A large valley, shallow at first then gradually deepening as it grew wider, sprawled away from them across the land to their left, running parallel to the mountain range. Nothing about it seemed natural, like an ever deepening furrow carved by some enormous farmer’s plough.

In the green van ahead of them Cin leaned across the cabin, his face close to Tuc’s shoulder. “Woah,” he said quietly. “Is that the Starfall?”

Forgetting himself for a moment, Tuc let out his first laugh since they left the Four Cities behind them two days ago. Cin’s head did not move, though his eyes slowly panned towards Tuc and fixed him with a stare. Tuc quickly felt it, his laugh faltering in his throat and becoming little more than a strangled croak. He glanced sideways at Cin several times in a few seconds, not daring to meet his eyes. He could not tell if Cin was angry with him, or just curious, the mask obscuring anything other than those eyes, which always shared their expression with those of a hungry snake. Tuc fought to regain his composure.

“Well…uh, th…that is the thing really.” He expelled a nervous cough to clear his throat as he continued. “You see, some people do think The Skid is where the Star Fall came down. No one is quite sure, though. Despite that, it does look like something fell here a long time ago. The people here have told me stories of The Founding, where they would drag huge chunks of metal from the ground with all kinds of salvaged vehicles and…”

Cin groaned, leaning back from the window and Tuc, who had lost his initial trepidation to his reverie.

“…because Saunter City didn’t just get built carved in half after all, so it is easily assumed that…”

Cin leaned against the frame of the open window, his gaze fixated on the vast emptiness occupying the view along the right side of the van, infinitely more interesting to him than the history lecture going on to his left.

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2016/05/01/skid-journals-d1-p1/feed/0And the words will… re-flow?http://vandeamon.com/2016/04/09/and-the-words-will-re-flow/
http://vandeamon.com/2016/04/09/and-the-words-will-re-flow/#commentsSat, 09 Apr 2016 20:16:55 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=97Read More]]>Something I am very much aware of as a budding writer is, you must always be ready to learn new things. Another thing I believe is that you can never have too much critique, and should never take it badly when it comes your way. Recently I published the first and second parts of The Skid Journals story series, feeling rather proud of my efforts. This is not saying much, however, given that when writing in the past I would feel ‘good’ about what I was doing. And if checking over my old EVE Online character story backlog has taught me anything, it is that my writing had a long way to go back then. Either way, that does not mean I took a look at my new works here and realized I had written a mess. Far from it, in fact. Though who knows how I might feel in 10 years time, looking back at this site. Only time can tell.

Back to the present, however, a good friend of mine offered to provide me with some feedback on the first journal. I had mentioned in my previous blog that I have a friend who used to edit professionally. By way of a quick plug, her name is Sakaane and you can find her own writings and assorted art on her site, Incyanity. Sakaane is also the friend who prompted me to begin this site, as well as setting me up with discounted hosting, and provided me with support setting up the site. She approached me soon after the second part was published in the beginning of March and offered to spend some time going over the first part to give me some pointers. I had expressed to her a couple of times in the writing that I had struggled with some of the technical details, again as mentioned in my previous blog about my experiences writing the first two parts.

With my blessing, she was ruthless with her suggestions and corrections and returned to me a document smothered in red ink. Even then, having asked for this in the first place, it felt a little overwhelming to see that many corrections. Initially, I will confess to having been intimidated by the prospect of editing the first part to such an extent. Even after taking the time to read through Sakaane’s revisions first and seeing they were not all that huge of a task, (lots of red on a page and large blocks of inserted comments can make it look a larger job than it actually is), I still felt it hard to get started on this process. Why? Well, I guess you can think of it like this. When you have ‘finished’ a thing your brain will file it away, check the box on the to-do list and unburden itself with thoughts of the task. With that comes a nice dose of ‘feel good’ chemicals as a reward for all your hard work. It’s like being told you have to go back and do it all again, which is likely to demotivate anyone just a little.

The last two to three weeks have seen me tackle this document, on and off, making the changes needed to bring the story up to par. I am not changing any of the content of the story as such though a few clarifying lines here and there as needed have been added. It has felt a little slow, almost like writing a story from scratch in that sense even if not in actual substance. I tend to find that as I pass the halfway mark of anything I am working on I find a nice zone where I can work harder suddenly, and progress increases multiple orders of magnitude. In the last two to three days I feel I have broken the back of the rewriting task and feel I am near the end.

Once I have done I will update the existing entry and blog again. I wondered at first if I should preserve the original work but given nothing is changing story wise it would make little sense to have two copies of the same story on the site. Still, until this is done I will not be working on the next part beyond the rough draft I already have.

I figured a little blog would do right about now, and I can share some experiences with the site so far. Not to mention getting some content out at last. Since I want to blog about the whole writing thing to begin with I will start with the shameless plugging.

Around a month back I made a decision to begin releasing the story I had been working on in smaller sections, instead of one huge block of text. On the subject, here is a link to the first part. After making this decision I split what I had currently into separate parts and began the editing and re-write process. This is the first of a new series of stories based on a roleplay session for a game called Apocalypse World, as I detailed in this previous blog.

Getting this first part out was a big relief, as I was beginning to feel I might stall given the length of the story, and might not finish at all. As such the site would remain an empty husk, which would not do at all. One thing I am keenly aware of in writing is that nothing motivates like results. And it was high time for some motivation as I neared the end of the first part of The Skid Journals. Shortly after this, the first part was published. Several weeks later I had completed my editing on the second part and, that too was published.

I had intended to write this blog between the two parts but, as I said, motivation comes from results and I was determined to get the second part done. There is one more part to come before it ends the first chapter of the journal. The chapter is based on the activities in a single session of the game I ran, which always covered one day in the life of the main characters.

Further to the motivation aspect I was aware that the first chapter was becoming rather lengthy. More so than I anticipated while putting together the draft structure from my game session notes. As such it made more sense to me to chop it up into smaller bits to make it easier to digest for readers. Web browsers do not come with bookmarking functions for scrolling, at least not as far as I know, so picking up mid-flow is often difficult. Not like an eBook reader, where you can return to where you left on the page much easier than on your computer’s browser. Which has also put the idea in my head to make eBook formats of the stories as they begin to pile up, and put the link on the site.

For now, though, I will choose to complete the first couple of chapters of The Skid Journals and see where things go from there. Don’t want to get ahead of myself at this point. And the setting of The Skid is not the only work I plan to do over time. So, what lies ahead?

Well, first there is the EVE Works site which saw a new and more recent addition to the catalogue, written to cover the events of my in-game character Darius Shakor, during our corporation’s remembrance of a disaster that occurred in the storyline ten years back. Writing it made me keenly aware that the site still lacks the rest of the back catalogue of stories, as progress formatting them for the site stalled with my commitment to getting some content on Vandeamon. So I will be committing myself to getting a story put up there at regular intervals. I won’t lie when I say getting through the first few chapters of the story was painful given my poor writing style of the past. In fact, that is what I want to talk about next. Editing the old stories I have written, and picking out glaringly obvious typos and basic punctuation errors as well as poorly worded sentences can make you cringe. And the temptation to add in a few more lines to make it read easier, or even change around a couple of items to alter the flow is hard to resist. Eventually, I caved in and rewrote a whole paragraph that read too awkward for my liking. Still, I intend to continue and bring that site up to date with my old backlog of fiction.

So, onto the writing style aspects in general. First I will say I am pretty confident in my ability to write passably these days. Even the recent EVE Online piece I linked above received good praise from friends who’s opinions I respect when it comes to writing and narrative. One of them is also from a professional editing background, so that was heartening and spurred me on with The Skid Journal. I have felt happier with how the two parts for The Skid have turned out, too, and having some historical perspective from my old story backlog made it much clearer to me that my writing has vastly improved. Despite this, I still find myself having to correct old, bad habits. the recent one being picking up some errors with punctuation in direct speech, such as when to use a comma or a period during direct speech. My use of tenses is still an issue I need to watch for. And overall I make a few technical mistakes here and there. Simple stuff like this I have struggled with since school, not having had them sink in as I struggled in my earlier years.

Thankfully, and to my overall betterment, my friend with an editing background spent some of her free time this weekend going over the first part of The Skid Journals with the judicial application of red ink. I might be expected to feel disheartened while looking over the document she returned, covered in red comments and strikethroughs with suggested changes marked everywhere. The thing is, though, when you know you could do better anyway it is pointless to be unhappy when someone takes the time to show you how. Criticism is something most people tend to shun, taking it as an affront to their ability, and forgetting that criticism comes in positive forms as well as negative. Their impact is also different in that regard, and when given with good intentions it should not be cast off. So I will use this to educate myself further and seek to weed out my own writing problems, because in the long run that will certainly help me.

In contrast to receiving actual human feedback, there is one more subject to talk about before I am done. By chance I spotted an app I could install on my browser and tablet, called Grammarly, which claims to not only pick up more errors than conventional spell checkers but also provide some writing style tips and scan for overused words in whole paragraphs and such, though these features turned out to be locked behind a rather pricey monthly paywall so I cannot attest to how good they are. Still, it was picking up a few issues here and there that other grammar checkers did not. And, as it turns out, it failed to pick up others. I return to my earlier example of punctuation in direct speech, which causes me the occasional problem. Grammarly corrected some of them but failed to flag others where a period was used incorrectly during the speech text. Actually, it failed to pick up a fair number of these instances overall.

Speaking with my friend about this, it was noted that you should never allow software to do your editing for you. As it turns out I do prefer to read all my work line by line, if anything for my own benefit of practice. So it is worth noting that letting a piece of software do your checking will only breed lazy habits, and overall I will never get better with basic issues unless I go looking for them myself. Still, that does not mean using such apps or corrective software is a bad thing when you do make so many small mistakes, as they can be a time saver too.

Personally, I prefer to use them in tandem, running down the story I have written line by line while ignoring the software’s highlights further down the page until I reach them. And then I try to figure out not only if the error is correct, as Grammarly also flagged a couple of areas that had no issue, I also try to determine what caused the issue to begin with so I know for later reference. I have done this pretty much all through my writing ‘career’ as such. I also find that I often have better ways to put something that not only removes the error but also reads better to my eyes. I guess what I am rambling on about here is that it is ok to use grammar and spell checkers for your work, but only to a point. It is important to exercise some thought of your own as well without relying on them entirely to make the right corrections.

Anyway, I had some other thoughts but they are starting to turn to rambling in my head as I continue writing this. So, for now, I will leave this blog here and get back to hammering out the next portion of The Skid Journals and the backlog of my older EVE stories. Words wait for no one.

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2016/03/13/and-the-words-will-flow/feed/0The Skid Journals 1-2 – Making Friends and Influencing Peoplehttp://vandeamon.com/2016/03/05/skid-journals-d1-p2/
http://vandeamon.com/2016/03/05/skid-journals-d1-p2/#respondSat, 05 Mar 2016 21:49:29 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=71Read More]]>The mountains suddenly gave way to the vast and endless flatness of the plains beyond. The road stretched out across the world towards the dark stained flats beyond. Further into the journey, three dark looking dots resolved in the distant haze, resting by the roadside. Before long the distinct shapes of three bikes, riders by their side, came clear through the heat ripple rising from the cracked and dusty road. One of the figures separated, driving across the road and stopping sideways before stepping off Tuc slowed his van a little as Cin gave him a sideways glance from his passenger seat.

“What are you doing?” he said, slowly reaching for the assault rifle, now propped up in the footwell.

“No,” said Tuc, calmly. He continued to slow. By now Cobra’s truck, having fallen in line behind them, began to pull around level with them. Tuc thrust an arm out of the window at them, waving it up and down. “It should be ok!” he shouted over the noise of their engines, less raucous than before during the mountain road chase, though still enough to drown out his voice at normal levels.

“Friends of yours?” enquired Cin, now holding the rifle low in his lap, checking the breech and magazine.

“Not exactly,” he continued as Cobra pulled level with them, making no further move to pass in front and defend them. “But waving a gun around is a good way to turn them into enemies, so keep that down out of sight!” Cin stopped working on the gun, instead now staring at Tuc again. As before, had Tuc looked his way he would not know if he had angered the man or if Cin were simply deep in thought about the situation. His eyes were always angry. In actuality, he was surprised at Tuc’s assertiveness, which seemed to come and go in short and fleeting bursts. Eventually, Cin obliged and lowered the rifle out of sight, setting it back against his car door ready to be raised in a heartbeat.

“Any idea what this is about?” shouted Midnight from the passenger window.

“Likely we are going to be shaken down for a toll,” replied Tuc.

“A toll?!” spat Cin. Tuc looked back and forth between him and Midnight. Ahead the biker was stood in front of his bike, both arms stretched forwards, palms flat to the ground as he raised and lowered them in a gesture for them to stop. “Screw that just run the fat bastard over!” Cin grabbed hold of the rifle’s foregrip again. In response, Tuc slammed his foot down on the brake pedal. The van lurched suddenly, the tires screeched a little, and the van suddenly stopped Cin’s hand overshot its mark as momentum carried him forwards. “The hell?” he exclaimed.

“Knock it off!” came Tuc’s reply. He turned to Tuc, whose face was now turning a little red. To their side Cobra’s truck stopped beside them, a little ahead. “You’re going to get us killed here, just follow my lead here ok? These guys operate all over Cinder Rock and other settlements around The Skid. They are actually OK, certainly not the worst we are going to encounter here, but don’t mess with them all the same. Besides, I think I know this guy. The toll is not an official thing for the gang and he tries this kind of shit all the time. And besides I have some junk in the back they might like and I am not likely to sell anyway. Call it a business write off. It will be fi…”

Tuc stopped short of finishing as the sound of a car door slamming to their left grabbed his attention. He swiveled his head back to the sight of Midnight straightening his jacket. Outside of the truck, he stood at around five foot ten with a slim build and was dressed in faded denim jeans with a long black coat, well cared for but aged none the less. He turned back to Tuc with a warming smile.

“This one’s on me,” he said gently. As he strode off towards the biker in the road, still some distance away, Cobra killed his engine finally. Tuc finally spoke.

“Oh god, don’t mess this up.”

“Good afternoon,” said Midnight cheerfully as he approached the figure ahead. As he drew closer he took the measure of his new conversation partner. From top to bottom he judged the biker to be middle aged, the kind of man who spent most of his time on the road, and the time not behind the grip of his handlebars was spent with the grip of large pitchers of beer and entirely unhealthy food. As evident from the large gut extending ahead of him. He stood unapologetic to the world, his leather cut was ragged at the edges, his flannel shirt stained with old oil patches never to come clean again. His hair, slightly greying with age and somewhat fuzzy, was long enough to be tied back in a ponytail. His face was inhabited by a thick and equally grey beard that extended down from his chin with little care for any style. To their side, just off the road, his companions were now sitting on their bikes with hands rested on the stocks of what looked like shotguns tucked firmly into the rifle holsters strapped to their bikes. Not a directly threatening gesture in itself, but the message was clear to anyone with eyes to see it. If they started a fight, they would receive one in kind.

“Nice truck,” the biker stated, his voice hoarse. He nodded his head behind Midnight towards Cobra’s black armoured SUV. Without turning to look, Midnight gave a genuine smile and nodded a little.

“Well, thank you. I am sure the driver will appreciate the compliment. He’s very proud of it.’ Midnight looked directly into the biker’s eyes. “I’m sure you are proud of your bike, too. It certainly looks well maintained.”

“Uh… yeah, it’s not bad I guess.”

“With all this dust and grit out here, I imagine it takes some cleaning after a long ride.”

“Uhm, kind of yeah.”

“So, to business. My name is Midnight. And you?”

“… the guys call me Hog.”

“Excellent. So Hog, we are passing through to Cinder Rock. I understand you guys have business there as well?” At this point, Hog paused for a long moment before continuing.

“Why…”

“It’s just our friend in the van over there is looking to set up a business of his own, you see. He would not want to step on any toes after all. Though he is just a merchant of numerous general goods, which I don’t imagine would get in the way of any action you guys are involved in.” Midnight maintained his eye contact with Hog who now seemed to be trying to turn his head to the side. However hard he tried, he could not break eye contact with the man in front of him. Midnight seemed to Hog as though he filled his whole view. Slowly the world around began to grow dark, like clouds passing overhead. They certainly seemed to come out of nowhere. Hog turned his head back towards Midnight.

“Well we don’t do that kind of business,” said Hog evenly. “So I suppose that would be OK.”

“I assumed so. I don’t mean to pry either, your business if none of ours after all. And once we are done with this escort job we will likely hang around the town, too.”

“Uh, yeah, hey that is cool too. The town is pretty big and plenty of merchants, a couple of bars and what not.”

“Sounds great,” replied Midnight. Hog seemed to be relaxing into the conversation as they continued discussing the town for several more minutes.

Tuc fidgeted in his chair now. It had been almost ten minutes. Cin seemed to have relaxed, though. Tuc risked a glance at the intimidating aspect of his travel companion, where even at rest he still looked capable of violence. Either way, Tuc could not share his apparent state of calm. As if in polar opposite to each other, the longer the distant conversation between the biker and Midnight took, the more nervous he became and the more relaxed Cin seemed at their situation. He looked to his left at Cobra’s truck, just ahead of them and unable to see the driver within. Surely he would share Tuc’s discomfort at how long this was taking.

Cobra adjusted his feet again, crossing left ankle over right as they rested across the dashboard. He was slumped down in his chair, his back resting in the corner against the door frame. He opened his eyes once more, saw Midnight was still at it, then let out an audible sigh.

I guess they are getting along.

Tuc continued to fret in silence, having being chastised twice already by Cin for making the occasional nervous hum. Suddenly the hairy biker swung his arm up towards Midnight’s shoulder. Tuc felt his nerve break. This was it. They were going to fight. He pissed off the bikers and was about to get shredded by their shotguns. His grip began to tighten on the wheel turning his knuckles white. The biker slapped his open hand against Midnight’s shoulder, who returned the gesture in kind, and both of them laughed loudly. Tuc watched, unsure almost at what he was seeing. He knew the local bikers were not specifically a bad bunch, far from bandits certainly. Though he never expected one to warm so quickly to a stranger. The two shook hands with the veracity of old friends departing each other’s company, and Midnight turned to head back to where they were parked.

“Hells that took forever.” groaned Cin next to him, now straightening himself in his seat. “We can finally get moving.”

“Uh… what just happened?” asked Tuc.

“What do you mean? They talked, agreed, laughed, and we are going now. You want me to draw you a flowchart?” Tuc was about to say something in retort, but words failed to form. Instead, he slowly reached for the starter on his van as Midnight drew up to his window.

“We’re good here. No toll to pay actually. He was quite a nice fellow and saw the value of letting a new businessman go through to town.” Tuc sat, mouth slightly open, looking back between Midnight and the retreating biker, now backing his mount off the road again towards his friends. They were walking up to him, looking as confused as Tuc felt.

“We should go quickly before his friends disagree to agree,” said Cin plainly, hand still resting near the grip of the rifle by his right leg. Tuc started his van as Midnight nodded and returned to Cobra’s truck. The two vehicles casually slid past the three bikers. Tuc glanced back in his mirror as the distance began to grow and saw the hairy one, still sat in the saddle, arguing with the other two who stood over him. Soon they were out of sight and the dark smear of the Poison Flats was ahead.

Following Tuc’s instructions, Cobra turned off at the last marker of the old road, taking a left onto a less paved path, at least partially. To carry on forward would be to drive into death. Now passing by their right side, the land sloped down partially before leveling out into a dried lake bed as far as the horizon and beyond. The earth was stained a murky brown, and signs on the approach road indicated all manner of unpleasantness beyond. Warnings of biological hazards, high radiation and poisonous chemicals were spaced out along the roadside, as well as along their current route running parallel to the flats. After a rough transit along the makeshift trail, they re-joined another stretch of old broken roadway that crested the rise beside the slope towards the flats. The convoy pushed further ahead, now travelling just a little west of direct north. To their left the plains began to give way to the large gouge of The Skid, gradually deepening and widening as they traced the edge of the eastern slopes.

“Someday,” began Cobra, after a period of silence. “You will have to let me in on the secret to that little trick of yours.” Midnight simply shrugged with his usual relaxed smile. “Fine, keep your secrets to yourself.” replied Cobra with a slight chuckle.

“If I knew how to tell others how it works…” began Midnight, trailing off.

“Yeah, I know. ‘I would still not tell anyone.’ We have had this conversation before.” Cobra smiled.

“You just hope it will get you lucky with the ladies someday.” Cobra laughed for a second and nodded.

“Would not hurt my chances.”

Less than twenty minutes along the road a large rock formation at the crest of the eastern ridge seemed to stand out from the ground like a broken fang, burned black by fire. The formation continued down along the banking of The Skid until out of sight. Stretching out from the rocks and across the road was a solid looking wall, constructed from large sheets of metal anchored and riveted to large steel posts. Standing at around 20 feet high, and topped with barbed wire, the wall stretched across towards the steady slope leading to the flats before meeting a large structure which resembled a big platform of some kind. The main gate straddled the broken road around half way between the rock face and the platform-like structure by the flats. Guards were visible atop the section of the wall close to the gates, as well as at small promontories spaced out across the wall’s expanse.

Tuc drew up short of the gate, Cobra and Midnight stopping alongside them in the armoured SUV. As they killed their engines a postern opened in the corner of the gate and two figures stepped out onto the road.

“The welcoming committee,” said Tuc with a smile and pushed open his door. Half way out he heard Cin open his own door too and stopped, one foot out of the door, while turning to Cin. “Now, be nice… actually, maybe just say nothing. Yes, that would be best I think. And leave the gun here, please.” Tuc fully withdrew from his van, while to his left, Midnight leaned through the window.

“We OK from here?” he said.

“I should think so, yes,” stated Tuc, the obvious relief in his voice as though the words were carried by his first new breath since they entered the mountains. Tuc observed a moment as the two guards stopped close to their vehicles, then turned back to Midnight. “What did you actually say to that biker?” Midnight simply smiled, then opened his own door. Cobra followed suit and, somewhere behind him, Tuc could feel the ominous presence of Cin lingering by the front of his van. Or maybe it was the look of discomfort on the guards’ faces as their eyes fixed on him.

“Don’t mind him, gentlemen, he’s actually quite a nice guy,” said Midnight. They reluctantly directed their eyes towards the rest of the group then finally at Tuc. One of the guards, seemingly the senior of the two, spoke first.

“Welcome to Cinder Rock folks,” he began with the well-rehearsed enthusiasm of an undertaker. “Since you seem to be new here, we ask that you allow us to search your vehicles before being allowed to continue through the gate. We also have a couple of questions for you while we are at it.”

“Oh, of course, that would be fine,” said Tuc with more than enough enthusiasm for both of them. “My name is Tuc,” he continued, seeming to slip into his element as a trader. Meanwhile, the two guards had split up to begin their checks on the two vehicles. “My travelling companions and I have come from the four cities.” The guard who spoke headed round the SUV towards the driver side door. Behind Tuc, the second unnamed guard stopped as close as he seemed comfortable to Cin.

“Sir, is this vehicle carrying any cargo or trade goods?” He waited for a response other than the usual dour glare emanating between Cin’s hair. Tuc turned and restrained a roll of the eyes before answering the question. “Oh, apologies, he does not talk very much. And it is my van. These men have been my escort through the mountain roads. I am sure my friend would be fine with your inspection. Oh, and yes I do have cargo in the van. And will disclose that there are weapons packed in there as well as one in the… passenger side footwell…?” he directed the half-formed question towards Cin, who nodded.

“You trading here?” asked the senior man again as he finished inspecting the SUV’s driver side.

“Oh not exactly, I am seeking to open my own business here. I already have an existing arrangement with Merchant Guild Master Vulpan. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your names, gentlemen?” He looked between the two, the second guard now out of sight behind his van. The senior guard began opening the doors on the passenger side of Cobra’s truck.

“Yes I never told you,” he stated plainly. Several moments later, he withdrew from his rummaging in the rear compartment and closed the door. “These kit bags here are your personal effects I take it?”

“Exactly.” stated Midnight with his usual easygoing smile. “And by way of introductions, my name is Midnight, this is Cobra and the impressive looking fellow by the van is Cin.” Barely a second of eye contact passed before the guard spoke again with a slight huff.

“My name is Rowland. Day watch, upper south wall supervisor. The other is Greggins, one of my men assigned to this gate.” Midnight nodded and stepped a few paces away from his own door, coming to rest beside Tuc. As Rowland began searching the passenger side, Tuc glanced at Midnight and eventually whispered.

“If I revealed my secrets,” whispered Midnight in reply. “Then they would not be secrets. And I fear I would suffer the most horrible pain.” Tuc stared at Midnight for several more seconds before the man finally cracked a smile.

“Ha, ok I get it. Good one,” said Tuc finally, smiling wide. Greggins returned to the front of the vehicles after completing his search, Rowland too satisfied himself with his search of the passenger side front seats.

“All checks out sir. No contraband.”

“Very good.”

“If I may,” interrupted Tuc. “The last time I was here I do not remember any searches. Do you conduct these often now? I admit it has been a while since I last passed this way myself.”

“Yes sir, especially for irregular arrivals such as yourselves. Things may have changed a little here since you were last in town then. Nothing to worry about. Cinder rock is the safest town on The Skid.”

“Aren’t you technically to the side of The Skid?” All heads turned to the origin of the question, eyes resting firmly on Cin. Several silent seconds later Tuc swiftly broke the tension with a short laugh.

“Well, actually, Cinder Rock’s lower part of town extends down the slope into The Skid proper. You cannot see it because of the rock face here.” Tuc pointed to the large outcropping.

“Well, you’re all clear to proceed inside. Just a note, the gates close from sundown, no exceptions. If you guys are planning to come and go from here in the future you should keep that in mind.” With little else to say, and before Tuc could issue so much as a thank you, Rowland and Greggins turned to the gate and walked back quickly. Rowland raised his right arm in the air, index finger extended and rotated it in a circular motion. Catching the signal, the guard on top of the wall shouted down to open the gate.

“I was blocking the door,” Midnight whispered to Tuc. Tuc turned slowly and looked at him confused. “When I asked his name, I was standing in front of my car door, blocking his way. All it took was a little eye contact to make my point. I dislike discourteous people.” He smiled at Tuc before returning to Cobra’s truck. Tuc scratched the back of his head, turned to his van and walked back while suppressing a chuckle of his own.

Ahead of them the gate, an old salvaged roller shutter, began to lift away on screeching gears and rattling chains to reveal a large metal construction. Fortified metal bars, backed by plates blocking the view beyond sat before them. As the gate rolled up to the halfway point, the fortified wall parted in the middle, adding to the metallic cacophony. They swung open revealing the interior of the upper town of Cinder Rock.

“And the next shipment?” enquired Darius. “I hope it will go better than the last one.”

“I have refitted our haulers.” replied the Vherokior on the other end of the holoscreen. “Should survive enough punishment to get to warp. So, yes. They will be fine. The production line ends in… another 4 hours. I will have them loaded up and begin moving them straight afterwards.”

“Thanks Haq.” Several seconds of silence followed.

“Gratitude.” Came the eventual reply. “If I didn’t know better I would say you were starting to like me finally.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” replied Darius dryly. His comms panel pinged quietly indicating an incoming message. “Alright Haq, send me a message when you are done shipping and set up the transfer contract. Got somewhere I need to be.”

“How’s it going over there, by the way?”

“Different. ILF is not as big as the Ushra’Khan. But size isn’t everything.”

“See, that’s what I used to tell people all the time in my black market days.” With a slight nod, and his customary sly grin, the Vherokior terminated the signal.

Darius seated himself around a conference table in a meeting room, part of the ILF Corp facilities here on the station. Several members were already present, others too far away to make the journey attending via holo-link either in their quarters or via the capsule’s NeoCom system. Standing at the front of the room, Bataav had been updating the corporation on current affairs. Being based in low security systems, the ILF needed to stay updated on the current state of affairs. Intaki was seated deep inside the Gal-Cal contested war zone, established in a conflict that began several years ago with a surprise attack on Gallente space by the Caldari military forces. Since then capsuleer militia forces on both sides, established by CONCORD in the wake of the invasion, roamed both sides of the border seeking to further the sovereign interests of their chosen faction. Beside that the ILF had internal projects to keep members updated with, and interests beyond pure Intaki sovereignty. Having concluded all other business, Bataav turned the holo-projector on in the centre of the table. The space above was filled with the image of a planet, the surface that could be seen through the violent storms spread across the land was scorched and desolate looking.

“This is a current image of Reschard V.” stated Bataav. “On February 9th, ten years ago New Eden standard date, the planet was the victim of a cataclysm that left it a barren rock. Prior to the planet-wide explosion an Avatar class titan was reported in low orbit, after that the entire planet’s communication grid went dark. Satellites shortly after, but not before they transmitted an automated emergency code to the Federation’s navy indicating a massive energetic event. It took seven months before the Sisters were able to reach the colony, their initial relief efforts hampered by capsuleers from IRON.”

Bataav continued to elaborate that Mordu’s Legion, contracted for security by the Sisters of EVE, investigated the site and discovered consistencies with a ‘doomsday’ weapon typically used on the Avatar titans. The planet never recovered due to massive electromagnetic storms sweeping the planet, the geomagnetic field slowly eroding subjecting the planet to solar influences which caused high static buildup within the upper atmosphere.

“When the final rescue efforts were completed, only around 2,000 people were recovered. A projected survival rate of only one out of 50,000 people total.” Bataav gave the numbers a few moments to sink in. The room was entirely silent, save for the gentle hum of the projector. Bataav turned the projection off, adding further to the absence of noise in the room a moment longer before he cleared his throat.

“This ten year anniversary is coming around in the next few weeks. This disaster was felt deeply among the Intaki people, being the principal inhabitants of the planet, though a great many people from around New Eden also settled there. We want to ensure this tragic loss is not forgotten, and those lost are remembered accordingly by the ILF.”

09-02-118 Intaki V – Moon 5, Astral Mining Inc. station

Darius packed the last of his ceremonial supplies in the carry box, checking the contents before closing the ornate wooden case. Today the ILF would mark the disaster of at Reschard V. Darius had began his own honouring of the dead in the ways of his clan, though it somehow felt out of place. He knew of the catastrophe before the briefing some weeks earlier, it having been wide spread news on the GalNet ten years ago. Though, like all tragedies, they have less impact the further away the news travels. It becomes something that happened to other people. Darius only felt that difference last month, during Bataav’s briefing in the conference room. Looking around the room at the time he could see a few who clearly felt the impact more deeply than he could. Either way, this was a major loss of life and the dead should be honoured.

Darius headed through the capsuleer accommodation zone of the Intaki V-5 station, seeking somewhere more fitting than a table in a dark corner of his quarters. He had not been long in Intaki space, and was unsure of the customs for such occasions. Even so, he knew what mattered most was intent of mind over cultural accuracy. Darius approached one of the entrances to one of the gardens on the station. While this area was reserved mostly for capsuleers, there were always small pockets of service staff cleared for access here and there. Even with that the capsuleer habitat zone was mostly deserted here in Intaki, another thing about life here he was slowly getting used to compared to the core of Minmatar space. Today, the quiet would be perfect for his needs.

The inside of the garden was equally quiet, besides the one grounds tender deeply engrossed in his work. Even when capsuleers docked at this station long enough to venture into the interior they rarely visited this particular deck. A whole half of the dome stretched high into the air above providing a view of a large atrium spanning several decks up and down. Several large verandas extended out into this gulf and were staggered at different levels, each one populated with stalls and plazas, single and two story structures, and pickup points for the station transit system. The other half of the dome provided a view out to space, the station’s current daylight rotation angled to a view of the fifth moon which reflected the light of the sun back at the station.

Darius followed the path along the inner part of the dome for a few minutes, passing various mixed arrangements of plant life, no doubt from various planets across the Gallente Federation. While not being expert himself, each section of the gardens along the pathway followed a principle of arrangement in which negative spaces were used between each plant to draw further attention to each one as its own unique form. Each plant was specially picked to complement the shapes and colours of the other in the display without either sacrificing the minimalistic approach nor drawing attention to its use. Other parts of the garden interior were given over to thicker growths of bushes and wide trunked trees, their thick branches spread out low and wide giving the impression of a giant mushroom constructed of wood. Some of the branches were draped with the occasional patch of thin vines with leaves the colour of burnt orange.

Darius left the pathway behind in favor of the secluded inner tracts of the garden, seeking a spot he had located some weeks back. He arrived at a small stream which formed at the base of an artificial waterfall. Several small flat rocks were spaced around the area, and the ground was well tended compared to the wilder vegetation surrounding the small sanctum. Several such sites were dotted around the garden interior, like small islands of calm between the riot of nature, each one a reward for anyone who ventures off the pathway to find them.

Content with his choice of site, Darius set the carved wooden case on the largest rock. He worked the two clasps holding it closed, then opened out the case, laying it flat on the rock like a tray. Inside the box were several layered compartments which could be raised up on brass fixtures which locked into place, extending out from the middle on either side like steps. Darius lowered two more brass legs from beneath the outermost tray, extending them to the notches carved in the side. They rested against the wood and supported the weight of the tray above. When he was done the case would serve as an altar. He began withdrawing each ritual item from the lower portion of the box, setting them in their own place. The left of the altar contained ritual implements such as a ceremonial stone dagger, candles and an incense burner. To his right were natural items such as dried herbs and resins needed for the burner, each contained in a large sea shell collected from his home island, as well as two spheres of polished volcanic rocks – one dark and one pale – used as focusing aids in his meditation. A final empty shell he filled with water scooped from the small stream. Darius placed a small compressed charcoal disk inside the incense burner before running a strip of abrasive material over the surface. It reacted to the self-igniting coating on the disk, setting a spark that grew to a small flame. As quickly as it was given life, it spread itself thin across the surface with a steady crackle before extinguishing, leaving a faint orange glow in its wake. That soon gave way to white powder, hot enough to burn the small bundles of herbs and resins which Darius began sprinkling over the disk. Thin wisps of smoke rose from the bowl which gradually melted away.

Darius was not certain of all Intaki beliefs regarding the afterlife. He knew they believed in reincarnation, though this was not always the rule for all. And, as with all heavily homogenized societies such as the Gallente Federation, new generations adopt new systems of belief and old ones are less practiced. Even so, the Intaki people held firm to their core spiritual beliefs and still widely practiced them. Much like the Minmatar tribes who, even under the Amarr occupation, preserved large parts of their cultural heritage and spiritual practices. Regardless of his lack of general knowledge of such things, he knew enough to know the Intaki believed in spiritual essence, separate from the physical body. Among his own people’s practices, the smoke from special herbs would carry his message to the spirits. This was Darius’ belief, and when it came to honouring the dead that was all you needed.

Later, that same day

“You look deep in thought.” came the voice behind him. Darius smiled a little, leaning against the railing along the garden’s inner dome section. He had not left since completing his ritual, the wooden case sat besides his feet. He turned to Sakaane as she took a place at the rail beside him.

“Boss.” he said, by way of greeting.

“Namas, Darius.” she replied. He turned back to the view of the station atrium.

“I was just thinking about some things after my meditation.” Sakaane’s eyes lowered to the bx by his feet and back at him again. “It’s called a Tun’ma. A box for storying ritual items which also serves as an altar. I decided it was better to hold a remembrance here among the life of the garden than in my quarters.” Sakaane nodded with a smile.

“In had been meaning to ask you again how you were fitting in here. I know it has been a little difficult to adjust to some things. Is that what you are thinking about?”

“In a way, it is.” Sakaane waited a few moments longer before Darius continued. “I sometimes feel a little out of place when it comes to Intaki ways. I felt it a little with this memorial, too.”

“It’s ok, you didn’t have to do anything specific.” Sakaane said, still smiling.

“No, but I wanted to anyway. Because it was right to. The thing is I worried more about doing it ‘wrong’, if that makes sense. In the end I simply decided doing anything was more what counted.”

“Well, there you go then. Don’t let such things trouble you, Darius.”

“It’s ok, I moved on from thoughts like that during my meditation as I prepared.”

“So, what is on your mind still?”

Darius paused a few moments before answering. “Knowledge.” he said finally. Sakaane turned to look at him, slightly confused. “I’m interested in knowing more about Intaki cultural ways. Spiritual and social things. I came here because I felt the call of a freedom fighter stir inside, after I thought it long gone. And sure I know some things. As much as the average person in New Eden, I guess. More than enough to want to fight for the liberation the Intaki deserve. Now I want to spend time learning more about Intaki as a people.”

“Well,” Sakaane said after a few moments of silence. “If you want any help with that just ask. I can put together a good recommended reading list.” Darius looked at her and nodded with a smile.

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2016/02/09/remembrance/feed/0Works in progresshttp://vandeamon.com/2016/01/09/works-in-progress/
http://vandeamon.com/2016/01/09/works-in-progress/#commentsSat, 09 Jan 2016 21:30:45 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=54Read More]]>It has been a while since my last, and first post here. A little update is in order on what is currently in the works. So, straight into it!

Site design updates

The theme I have used here since launch has been more of a place holder and the more I looked at it the less happy I was. I did not imagine I would keep it long anyway, so I have spent a little time checking out other themes after it became clear I could not tweak this one very much. I could also not settle on an overall theme for the site, though as a good friend of mine said, it is a difficult thing work out. I think I may have settled on a theme now, and need to research what the paid version will let me do before I commit fully. The biggest issue I have had with the current theme has been text layout. As a best practice, the font for a website should always be clean and of a good size with good spacing to avoid eye strain. However I felt like the old initial theme had the text set too big, with a narrow area assigned for the main content making each s paragraph seem to flood the available space. When writing short blogs such as this, that may be fine. However, publishing longer stories was different and the previews of some current works always looked wrong to me.

The new theme I have my eyes on should clear this up a little, giving a little more space over to the main content column with a slightly smaller font, and reducing the size allocated for the sidebar which seemed to take up too much of the screen on the old theme. There may still be some work to do, such as the colour pallet for the site and header images, but it will get there in time. And once the site looks better I will likely feel happier actually putting content here as it will be presented better. I should push out the new theme soon, after I work out a couple of issues and decide if I wish to adopt the paid theme.

Apocalypse World

Since I started this site, there has been a menu with a single page on it called ‘Apocalypse World’. So far nothing else exist here save for the introductory page explaining what it is all about.

This series is going to be the first set of works I plan to put here. The first story is about half done, maybe a little more like 60% completed. Not counting proof reading and editing, of course. I had plans to get it out this last week, though I ran into the dreaded wall. The first two to three pages came easily, as I started the story mid-action. I had all the inspiration, motivation and time to work out how I wanted to write the story. After that the slow follow up began and the writing slowed in tandem. Not to mention I spent around half an hour trying to write just two lines describing a specific scene. Overall, as it stands right now, the wording does not match the mental image I have. However the foundation is finally there, and now needs working on. I am sure I will get it in editing.

This has also made me think about how I divide the content up for release. Do I write in smaller batches to avoid the wall hitting me hard mid-flow? Will this create more regular content? There is also the question of presentation. If you follow the link above to the introduction page for Apocalypse World, you will see the stories, initially at least, have derived from a roleplay game setting and sessions I ran with some friends. Originally I had intended each journal entry to be for each game session, for ease of following. Usually each roleplay game session has a defined starting point and ending point, and when I ran the game I always indented for a session to cover a defined portion of time and their own series of events. The game system itself allows easily for this time/story management compared to other tabletop games. However, in mirror image to my intentions here to stick to such a system of story telling, that did not happen in the game for one reason or another. So maybe I can let myself off and just put out what feels right as a self contained story.

Either way, the slow down after the action has been written, if a little rough compared to the first couple of pages, and I am now up to a more satisfying part with some weirdness. I am looking forward to my next writing session where I get to figure out how to portray some of the tabletop game’s more unusual player abilities.

EVE Works

One of the things I have been more occupied by has been putting my EVE Online character stories on the EVE Works site. Some time ago I completed the first chapter of my main character story, however there is still plenty to do such as the short chronicle entries I wrote alongside them. There are also two more chapters to publish, the first part of which I pushed live a couple of weeks back. Not to mention a load of other shorts, side character stories I began and never finished as well as continuing the saga where I left off.

The remaining two chapters, along with the chronicles for them are already written, and I have committed myself to doing minimal editing on them to preserve the old style. The writing is not too great, however I felt it was a good thing to leave them alone as much as possible. Even then there was much to do. Pasting them from Word documents has brought along some odd formatting errors such as punctuation issues. For whatever reason, pasting from a word document uses a style of inverted comma and apostrophe that is not recognised by WordPress and my browser. Maybe I am being a little OCD but I wanted to edit these out. Also, having pasted these stories to forum boards in the past there is some forum tagging code in the text here and there that I need to weed out and replace with the correct formatting in WordPress’ own system.

I will continue to chip away at these posts and get them out at a steady rate. Be sure to follow the RSS feeds for those as well as here for the releases of the Apocalypse World story.

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2016/01/09/works-in-progress/feed/1A start of something newhttp://vandeamon.com/2015/10/22/a-start/
http://vandeamon.com/2015/10/22/a-start/#respondThu, 22 Oct 2015 00:30:44 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=1Read More]]>A long time ago I had a website for my very own. I cared for it, and nurtured it, and filled it with content of questionable quality. I also had no idea what I was doing, making it in an old version of Dream Weaver 4 with limited knowledge I picked up in college as a side interest. I had to make every page manually, from tables which had images inserted, or text that often refused to line up with other pages as you browsed. And this took its toll on my time and patience for making that site and expanding it. Having to add a link to a new page to every page it made sense to show in was not easy.

Anyway that is over with now. The last time I updated that site was August 2007. I have not written all that much in that time, either. Though my itch to put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard since my personal handwriting is terrible, has been coming back over the last year or two. These works need a new home, and I intend to give them one.

So what will you find here, over the many months, as I bungle around with WordPress hoping to do a better job, and the old works rub shoulders with the brand spanking shiny new as if to smear their freshly laid ink in an act of veiled jealousy? For a start I will be relocating a lot of my EVE Online stories, featuring my player character Darius Shakor. These stories will continue.

I have done a little writing for other characters but I am not sure at this point they are ready for any public consumption as most are left incomplete. I may revisit them at some point and find a home for them, too. I also intend to begin writing a series of stories based on my Apocalypse World RPG game I ran with some friends. We never got far before we stopped playing, and my experience with GMing a tabletop game began to sour. Though I was proud of the setting I built and there are many stories to tell. So, look out for those in the future.

Anything else I wish to write will find its way here in time, now making a site appears to be much easier. Stay tuned…

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2015/10/22/a-start/feed/0Part 4 – Dangerous Skieshttp://vandeamon.com/2007/07/06/part-4-dangerous-skies/
http://vandeamon.com/2007/07/06/part-4-dangerous-skies/#respondFri, 06 Jul 2007 19:35:04 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=203Read More]]>Darkness once more. It was becoming all too common a sight. This was somehow different. He could sense something different in the air, though he could not focus enough to determine what it was. He could not remember where he was or how he got there. But he was… comfortable, somehow. Warmer. Clothing… he was wearing clothes. He had forgotten how they felt. Clean. He was clean too. All rewards from his master. His mentor. The man who had shown him the way. And the man who had shown him his enemy.

He was not alone either. In the darkness behind him, several guards stood their silent vigil. A hum, there it was. His mind was waking to the world around him now. A light? It was dim, orange, above the… door? A door ahead of him. The light barely illuminated the small cubicle room which felt… yes there it was. The room was moving down. And elevator. He was inside an elevator cart, large enough to be a freight elevator. His returning senses further began to realize the situation around him, resolving in gradually hardening detail as he slowly regained full consciousness.

The elevator continued to descend through the bowels of the station with a gentle hum. The cart eventually stopped at the destination floor and the doors in front of them parted to reveal a docking area. His eyes were more suited to the dim orange light in the elevator making the brighter lights beyond a little more bearable for him having adjusted more from… he had no idea how long he was in darkness, now he thought about it. He had always been in darkness. He had been shown a light and the way to redemption for his soul that lay beyond it. In the hangar, several ships were being moved from one section to another via gravity lifts, while others were being fitted with new weapons. There was so much life in front of him, so much activity, that all he could do was simply stand and stare, like a wide-eyed child looking upon something new and grand for the first time. As amazed as he was, it somehow seemed familiar to him. Like a distant life from an age long since past. He tried to remember, compelled by something instinctual to try and force the memory to the surface, to embrace it once more. A sudden rush of nausea overwhelmed him as he tried to remember. A face flashed in front of him, showing visions of death and pain. He went weak at the knees and began to fall, held up by the guards behind him.

“Sir,” shouted one of the guards to an approaching Brutor crossing hangar deck. He came jogging over, shaking his head at the scene in front of him. “Looks like he’s having another episode,” remarked the guard. The other man crouched level with his face and clasped his head firmly in the palms of his hands, lifting his head up and looking into his eyes. His forehead felt damp with sweat and his temples were throbbing as his eyes darted back and forth frantically, as if he were lost in a waking nightmare.

“Look at me young one,” he said, firmly but with no hint of anger. “Remember why you are here. Remember your mission. Trying to remember anything else will only bring you pain again. I don’t want that.” The young man began to calm down, his breathing slowed again. “There is nothing else but the mission.”

“Th…t….” he swallowed hard.

“Say it.”

“There is….” He struggled to compose the words. “…is nothing else…but the mission.” The man released the young one’s head and stood up, contently.

“Are you strong enough to stand?” He waited for a reply. “Show me you are strong enough. I have no time for the weak. You’re not weak are you?”

“No sir….”

“Make me believe it.”

“No sir,” he said again, stronger. “I’m not weak!” He growled.

“He thinks you are!”

“I’M NOT WEAK DAMN IT!” He shouted as he drove a fist against the ground with a powerful thud.

“Then stand up! That’s an order!” The guards let go of the man as he growled and stood on his own.

“Thank you, sir. You have shown me the way to the light of redemption, and the face of my true enemy.”

“You’re welcome, young one. And what have I told you about calling me sir?” He stepped up to his face and smiled. “Call me Ramar.”

The bar was clean, and that was in every definition of the word, including with regards to furniture. It was typical Caldari modern deco design. The tables were long and thin, with bar stools that could be best described as polished metal tubes sticking out of the ground, padded thinly with dark mock leather. Against the walls, smaller couches were recessed into alcoves set no more than a foot from the edge of the wall, with a low table set in front of them and no opposing facing chairs. On his arrival, Darius had attempted to take a place at one of these, not fancying the uncomfortable looking stools in the middle of the room. It quickly became clear they were not designed with Minmatar patrons in mind, especially a Brutor that stood at nearly seven feet tall. His head was uncomfortably close to the top of the curved alcove and he was barely able to maintain a full seat on the chair that was set too low to the ground. Quite frankly, the seats were bloody awful. He chose instead to stand at the bar, catching a glimpse of several Caldari males sitting perfectly in a wall booth snickering at him after his comical attempt to fit into one of those booths. The way he was feeling, it took surprising amounts of restraint to stop himself from heading over there and ensuring that he spent a night in the station’s security cells. Only the speculation that they were most likely as sparsely furnished and uncomfortable as this bar kept him from doing so.

What was beginning to anger him more was that he still didn’t know who he was waiting for or how long he should wait, except that it would be a woman. While he waited, Darius took the time to sample some of the different drinks served here. He rarely visited Caldari stations, and when he did he didn’t bother with the bars. They were un-lively and sterile places, with little defining character to them. Everywhere you went, they looked nearly the same. There were no distinguishing features, as if they had been taken the same section over and over and dropped into the middle of the station. He had been told that Caldari people found this ‘familiarity’ with their surroundings where ever they go to be comforting. To Darius, it was the hallmark of an unimaginative race. Hard to believe that they once shared the same existence with the Gallente. No wonder there was a war. A Gallente bar must seem positively hostile and intimidating to a person who would find this kind of setting to be comfortable. And on a personal level, he felt uncomfortable here and wanted to get this meeting over with as soon as possible.

He scrutinized the light green liquid in the tall thin glass before swilling it down. It was slightly bitter, but he could feel the strength of the alcohol none the less. The sound of fingernails drumming the bar next to him broke his attention. He looked to his side to see a young woman, a Brutor woman with braided red hair, staring at him with a smile. So this must be her.

“What took you so long?” He asked, with a frown clearly resting on his face. She, however, had a smug grin on her face that somehow aggravated him. She was even more annoying in person than over a comms channel, and she had not said a word yet.

“You really have your guard down for a fighter,” she jibed. “I have been standing here for nearly a minute now.” He returned his attention to the bar in front of him and growled under his breath. She extended a hand to him. “I never introduced myself. Shay’la.”

“How about we just get down to business?” He responded curtly, ignoring her handshake offering. “You said Chiron needs help with something. What?”

“No,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I said that I need help with something. You’re not living up to me expectations Darius. Chiron said you were quick on your toes.” He growled again, this time more audible and accompanied by a slow and frustrated grinding of his teeth. “OK, I can see you are losing patience with me so I will cut the chit chat now. For the last three years, I have been working deep undercover in Ammatar space.” The word Ammatar caught Darius’ attention. “My main focus has been to monitor their cross-border activities into Minmatar space. Several months ago I stumbled on something that will not surprise you. The Ammatar have been sponsoring black operations to kidnap Minmatar civilians for their slave camps.”

“Yeah, any Minmatar could take a wild guess at that. Chiron even has contracted me to destroy such raiding fleets. Of course, the Ammatar claim they are rogue elements each time.”

“Yes and, in Chiron’s case, more than likely that information came from either me. Or several of my fellow undercover operatives and other such sources within the Ammatar government and military who are… less than pleased with the state of the government. But what you won’t have heard from Chiron is what they are capturing people and enslaving them for. Haven’t you ever wondered why they need to risk war with the Republic by kidnapping people from their beds at night when their own slave farms can produce more than enough life to meet demand in the Amarr Empire?” Darius lingered on that thought for a moment. Admittedly, he hadn’t even thought of that.

“OK, tell me why.”

“Well, the majority go to slave breeding farms to keep new blood in the pens, so to speak, or are sold by these farms to Amarrians directly. However, I have been involved with one group that has not been making any money from the raids at all. And the slaves that are taken in disappear without a trace. Naturally, I decided to dig a little deeper.” Darius stood staring at the bar blankly while he took in the information. “What I found has major implications for all slaves, and former slaves. These people are being injected with various modified Vitoc injections that have been altered somehow in their chemical makeup. In short, the overall goal is to ensure total loyalty from their slaves through the use of drugs to facilitate brainwashing.” Darius blinked and looked at her puzzled.

“I thought that was the whole idea behind the Vitoc they currently have in the first place. The antidote gives a pleasant feeling, not taking it results in weeks of pain before death.” This was a fact Darius knew about all too well. His ordeal in Ammatar custody, not to mention the information on the side effects of the injection given to him by the slaver, Krane notwithstanding, His own father had died of Vitoc poisoning when the toxin would no longer accept the antidote synthesized by the Gallente doctors. From the moment his father was injected by the cruel Amarrian holder, that fate was sealed.

“Yes, but the loyalty mainly lies towards those that have the antidote. OK, those born in slave farms may have a little more loyalty because it is all they know. But those that have been captured into slavery are a little more unruly. Though they will obey if their life depends on it, if they are freed by someone like you, they will happily live their life back home as long as they have enough antidote. It’s this that they want to eliminate.”

“How?”

“They are attempting to make a new Vitoc that will suppress the areas of the brain that govern free will. Not only will they become slaves in body, but slaves in mind as well. This will eliminate unruly slaves who have been kidnapped and make them easier to train. Not to mention the propaganda gained from reports about slaves being freed by fighters like your comrades only to claim they have been kidnapped and wish to return. Even having antidote will not change that.”

“Sounds to me like it’s too late to make a difference,” he mumbled.

“Actually, no. They have not got the formula right yet. Unfortunately, the people who have been tested on so far have not proven useful. They either died from the poison when the antidote failed to work, or simply left to die when the batch in testing failed to show the results they were after.” Darius grimaced. He remembered the stories his Uncle told him when he was younger about the way his father died. Even then, words could not paint the full horror.

“So, what has this got to do with me? What do you need my help for?”

“Because of who is running the black ops program to kidnap people. An old friend of yours, Ramar.” Darius’ head snapped round and looked her in the eyes. “I know about your history together. How would you like to finish your business with Ramar? My orders are to bring him in alive, but nothing would give me more pleasure than to see him dead. After all, I am not defying orders if a ‘third party’ gets in the way and kills him before I can bring him in, right?” She winked at him with that same, mischievous grin to emphasize her point. After a moment’s thought, Darius looked back to the bar again.

“You asked me to come with you, simply because you want to help me avenge my brother’s death? Apart from doing the right thing, what do you want out of it?”

“Darius, if he is taken down, we could set back his kidnapping business for months. That would give us enough time to mount a covert strike on the Vitoc research facility and destroy the research while they are busy with administration matters. I don’t have to tell you that many have suffered greatly in this place in the name of their research. It’s barbaric at best.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Apart from my connection with Ramar, why me?” She didn’t answer. For the first time, he could see hesitation on her face. Darius fronted a fake smile as he lifted his weight off the bar. “OK, lots of luck then. I have other things to attend to.” He began to walk towards the door, when she turned after him.

“He’s not dead,” she shouted across the bar over the moderately quiet music. Darius looked back at her for a second, still making his way towards the door.

“Who?” The question came idly.

“Your brother, Kordan.” Darius stopped. He wasn’t even sure he had heard her right. “Kordan is alive Darius. He’s going to be transported to the research facility tomorrow. This is your last chance to have your brother back. After that, he’s gone forever.”

Maggot set himself down in the office on the comfy looking sofa to the side of his desk. In his hand was a small datapad containing details of a raid that was being planned for the next day. In his other hand was a cup of hot coffee fresh from the pot at the other end of the room. It was synthetic coffee and tasted like liquid plastic, but it was a hot drink none the less. For that alone, Maggot was grateful. It had been a long day, and he was considering calling it an early night. The only thing that stopped him was the simple fact that he had to review their tactics for the fight. It was something that he prided his fleet on. Many times they had been commended by both allies and enemies alike for their ability to be creative in battle. Sometimes it did not go the way they wanted, other times it worked a treat sending the enemy deftly into the jaws of defeat. Maggot was absolutely sure that adaptation was the key to defeating the Amarr. An old phrase that had served him well was that those that do not adapt, die with time.

His concentration was broken by a dull beeping noise from his desk. He groaned to himself, not finding the energy to stand, and simply used his data pad to connect to the terminal and view the message. Maggot read the message intently, his mood growing darker with each word. He closed the message down and sat motionless for a second, as if suppressing the desire to scream in frustration. In an instant, his plans had gone awry. He had no other choice, though. He had to act.

He opened his communication line to his second in command, Zoolkhan, and waited for a reply. In seconds, Zoolkhan answered, half-dressed and without his trademark sunglasses. There was the sound of a woman giggling in the background. He should have known.

“Maggot?” He asked, somewhat bewildered. “Now’s…not a good time old friend.”

Another giggle came from the side of the camera.

Two Girls? Thought Maggot. How does he…?

“Sorry Zool,” he replied, shaking off the thought. “We have to gather the fleet. Now.” Zoolkhan looked at Maggot with a mix of confusion and frustration. “We have a pilot heading into trouble. I get the feeling he will need to be picked up before the enemy grab him.”

“Who is it?” Maggot paused for a second and cocked an eyebrow. Zoolkhan frowned and shook his head. They both know who the only pilot out at the moment was. Everyone else was in their bunks in Pator. “Destination?”

“Get the fleet assembled and head down to Odatrik. Hold just short of entering Ammatar space until the shit hits the fan.” Zoolkhan frowned in frustration.

“That boy is getting to be more trouble than he’s worth,” commented Zoolkhan flatly before terminating the comm link.

Darius studied the picture on the pad Shay’la had given him. It was not pretty at all. A man’s head dominated the image, obviously Minmatar, but distinctly missing a large part of his jaw bone. He tossed the pad back to her and shrugged.

“I guess I could recognize him,” he started “If he were all there that is. Shay’la chuckled and tapped the pad before handing it back to him.

“That’s his employment file photo,” she continued “Before our security strike team apprehended him. Take another look.” Once again, Darius studied the face. He finally nodded in recognition.

“He used to be one of the deck crew assigned to my old corp. So why was he arrested?

“When Kordan was killed, Chiron put much effort into finding the people responsible. After all, it was an attempt on your life.”

“I know, she has already told me this.”

“Right. Well, when they tried again by destroying your ship in the hangar at Pator, she looked into possible leads on who was responsible. Chiron ordered a covert snoop of his quarters since he was the only man not there on that day when your ship blew and we found some evidence that he tampered with the pod’s self-destruct system. Obviously, it was meant to blow with you in it, but the unfortunate crew member running a diagnostic on your pod seemed to have triggered it early. Further digging traced this operation to Ramar himself. But that only confirmed what we already guessed.” Shay’la paused a second to let Darius think a moment. He finally broke the silence.

“What I don’t get is, he said in the message to Kordan thinking he was me, and that he wanted to ‘enlighten’ me. How would killing me do that? And how is it that Kordan is alive? His pod debris was recovered from the area by Chiron’s people and his clone was triggered, so clearly his pod was breached.”

“That’s where this gets interesting. Do you know how the pod actually works? How the brain patterns get from the pod to your cloning center billions of kilometers away?” Darius shrugged. In truth, he did not know entirely. “The signal is relayed from one cloning station to the other via faster than light comms. While cloning center computers are rather hard to break into, it is not impossible. Especially at the source. Someone, and we don’t know who, broke into one of the cloning centers between Kordan’s ship in Audensder and the target cloning center in Pator. The signal would have gone through several relay jumps before reaching there. According to the computer records, his brain pattern was intercepted halfway there, and a jumbled mess was sent in its place.”

“How do you know this?”

“Firstly, the tampering was detected and investigated by a separate department. At the time, no flags were raised on the matter due to the lack of information and the events were not linked. Secondly….” She hesitated for a second. “It’s something that we would do as well.”

Darius lifted himself off the bar and looked at Shay’la.

“OK, I’ll help you. Just tell me the plan.”

“Not here,” she replied. “Let’s get into space first. I have a ship in the next bay to yours. Meet me out of dock.” Shay’la quickly turned from the bar and walked to the exit. Darius watched her leave a second. Maybe a second too long as she looked back at him, and then winked. He diverted his eyes, almost embarrassed. He found her annoying and arrogant. She was even a little cold hearted in a way. The way she talked about her work as an agent, the people being enslaved, the experiments being conducted, it seemed almost like she was talking about an average holo-reel she had just seen. But something was different about her, something attractive. He pushed the thought aside for now, realizing he didn’t have time to think about it at the moment, and waited a little longer before heading towards the docking bays housing his ship.

The sound of the cargo ramp opening on the heavy frigate barely reached them as they approached the ship. The fine engineering that went into its construction was evident in every aspect. Ramar stood short of the ramp to admire the ship, a Vengeance class assault frigate. Based on the hull of the venerable Punisher frigate, the Vengeance was a powerful ship, delivered to the hands of the Amarrians to do God’s will. Ramar looked to his side, and his charge, Kordan. He was not fooling himself. Kordan was far from enlightened, or at least what Ramar would consider as ‘truly enlightened’ given the means of his current state of mind. Brainwashed was more accurate a description. And it was far from what Ramar would have had planned for Darius had his people not failed to check the identity of the pilot of that frigate. The plan was simple really. Lure Darius out to a system of their choice, destroy his escape pod, and intercept the neural pattern. It all worked except for one little glitch. Darius was not doing the mission. It took them a while to figure out what had really happened when they uploaded the neural pattern to the clone they had prepared, using a sample of Darius’ tissue they had taken while he was their captive. It was a strange feeling to be stood next to his old friend, yet it was not the same person.

“Time to go,” he said to Kordan. He would have his uses yet. It was a sad situation, but one that had to be played out none the less.

Darius and Shay’la exited the other side of the jump gate in the system of Kenobanala, controlled by the Ammatar. Shay’la had switched to a smaller interceptor class fighter. Much faster than Darius’ wolf, her Stiletto was forced to wait at each gate for him to catch up. As their ships emerged from jump, an ominous sight of an Ammatar fleet Armageddon loomed over them. As if she had felt his tension over the comms link, Shay’la told Darius in their secure channel to ignore them, and assured him that they would not attack.

Together, they would make a good team. Shay’la had briefed him on the plan of attack on their way down. She would hold his ship in place while Darius would kill it with his larger array of weapons. Even then, it was not without risk. Shay’la, having inside information on the transfer, told Darius that Ramar had acquired several assault ships of his own, all Vengeance class Punishers. While not being able to move would hurt his chances, Ramar would still be able to fire his own weapons.

They moved towards the next gate in the system that led to the Bimener system. Their target system of Khabi was just beyond that. That is where they would attack. Ramar would make a stop over in orbit of the fourth planet, and await an escort from there to the surface where the facility was set up. Shay’la had already seen to it with her other assets that the escort would not make it there alive. All that was needed was to kill Ramar. And, as with the escort, ensuring he would remain dead was also in place, and would give him a taste of his own medicine as it were.

And, she thought to herself, both Darius and I will have our revenge.

The system of Khabi was upon them quickly, and Darius followed Shay’la to the fourth planet. On arriving, Darius could see from orbit that the planet was a dense jungle climate. His sensors read that the geology was harsh, covered with mountainous regions that would rival that of northern Matar. Virtually the entire northern continent was split between east and west by a range of sheer cliff edges, some over one thousand meters in height and several kilometers across. His comms line beeped again and he opened the secure channel with Shay’la.

“Darius,” she began, “I have just been informed that Ramar’s escort ships were successfully ambushed two systems from here. They didn’t even have a chance to get a warning out, so all is going as planned.”

“Excellent,” he answered with no hint of joy. “So, we wait for Ramar now?”

“Yes. We will take our revenge.…” She quickly trailed off mid sentence and went quiet. Darius quickly picked up on her comment.

Our revenge? He pondered. What did Ramar do to her?

Darius was going to press the question to her about what she meant but was cut short by his tactical overview flashing a warning informing him that a ship had just arrived on the sensors.

“It’s Ramar!” shouted Shay’la, pushing her interceptor to top speed and closing on him. This was the moment of truth.

“Hold him for me,” commanded Darius. “He’s mine!”

Darius swooped onto his target as Shay’la was already orbiting Ramar’s Vengeance. The distinct blue haze surrounded the ship, indicating his engines were jammed with a webifier. Ripples of light flashed across the expanse of space between Ramar and Shay’la as laser beams struggled to catch the faster and stealthy Stiletto. Darius began to fire his autocannons at the Amarrian ship, pelting it with phased plasma rounds that had little problem eating the shields of the enemy assault ship. Quickly, the lasers tracked towards his ship now, the energy beams crackling against his shields. Darius smiled as he checked his systems. The beams were damaging, no doubt about that, but the modifications made to the shields by Boundless Creation ensured that damage specifically from lasers would be absorbed much more effectively than standard shields. He would win this fight, he would get his brother back, and Ramar would finally be dead.

All debts will be repaid this day. Thought Darius.

As quickly as Darius became sure of victory, a blinding burst of energy quickly filled the dark backdrop of space as a massive explosion cut a disk of energy and fire through the void. Darius felt a wash of triumph through his soul as the vessel exploded…

“Darius!” shouted Shay’la, with some urgency, “I have to break off!”

“But we got him….” He stopped short of finishing his sentence as a glance at his scanners revealed Ramar’s ship was still there, and picking up speed fast towards the planet. Another burst of energy filled the camera drones view, washing over Shay’las ship and hurling it away like a child would throw a toy it was no longer entertained by across the room.

“He has a smart bomb! I can’t stay in range of my webifier!” She pulled further away from Ramar, and out of range of the blast as a third pulse emanated from Ramar’s ship.

Damn you! He cursed, as he set a course to pursue.

“I can still jam his warp core,” said Shay’la, “But he’s heading towards the planet surface. He won’t be able to use his smart bomb in the atmosphere, but I won’t be able to use my webifier either.”

“He must die!” He shouted over comms. “I’m following him through the atmosphere. Get ready to move in close once he is within the atmosphere of the planet.” What was he doing? Giving the orders. It was Shay’las mission after all. Never the less, she responded immediately that she understood, her cold tone showing no hint of offense at him taking over suddenly.

The shields began to fade as both ships crossed into the dense upper atmosphere of the planet, forming a bubble of hot particles in front of the shields energy perimeter like a plate of fire. Ramar’s ship was closing into weapons range, before it suddenly dove near vertical towards the planet. Darius and Shay’la overshot his ship slightly. Darius reacted and threw his Wolf into a nose dive through the remaining atmosphere layer, ignoring the warning shouts and protests of his ship, warning of excessive heat build up. His shield strength plummeted rapidly, and the structure of the ship began to groan as gravity took a firm hold of the ship, like a clenched fist, and pulled him towards the surface of the planet. The warnings subsided as his ship entered the thin air below the edge of space, and the shields began to cool, now at less than fifteen percent capacity, but recharging quickly. Had he lost shields on entry, his ship would have no doubt burned up in seconds. Only the advanced shields’ resistance to heat saved him. Shay’la, now in the atmosphere, was adjusting her course to match, but was nearly a hundred kilometers behind them. She was forced to maintain her angle of attack on entry to keep the heat low since she could not survive the levels of heat that Darius’ ship could. He adjusted his course to match Ramar, who was still diving for a large ridge line covered in a canopy of green forest below them.

The two ships were in freefall, at the mercy of gravity as their ships continued to pick up speed. The gap was closing between them as Ramar was forced to pull his ship out of the dive. Waves of air buffeted across the sleek hull of the Amarrian ship as it changed course. Darius matched again, still closing quickly. The air around his ship whistled as the Wolf lunged through the air towards its prey, almost as bloodthirsty as its pilot. The turret positions on Ramar’s ship pivoted to the rear and opened fire. Darius began to roll his ship away from the laser’s beams, and fired his own autocannons in response. The bullets peppered the back shields as Ramar’s lasers failed to score a hit. The fool had waited too long and now Darius was too close for the lasers to do him much harm. Streaks of light sliced through the air behind him and dissipated in the air as the moist atmosphere thinned the laser’s power.

A second barrage of bullets from behind Darius struck the upper shield area of Ramar’s ship. Darius panned the camera drone around him and saw that Shay’la had caught up with them and was now firing her weapons. They were quickly approaching the ground below them, now less than a kilometer below. Explosions pockmarked the armor plates of Ramar’s ship, blasting off chunks of metal. An engine caught fire and the ship began to list heavily before wobbling off course and finally giving into a flat spin. The Vengeance suddenly flared upwards, instantly bleeding off airspeed like a giant airbrake. A collision alert sounded in Darius’ senses as he instinctively threw the Wolf into a diving roll, narrowly avoiding an impact with the flaming debris. He shot past the stricken assault ship, rattled by the resulting explosion in his wake.

“I’m hit!” Shouted Shay’la. Darius checked his camera and saw her Stiletto trailing fire and losing altitude. Just beyond her, a beacon light was flashing in the sky and began to plummet towards the jungle below.

“I see your pod. I’ll set down and pick you up.”

“I haven’t ejected yet,” she said flatly. A second later, her pod popped out of the bottom of her ship and also fell to the jungle. “OK genius, now I have eje….” Her comms line cut into static as the pod impacted in the jungle canopy sending a cloud of dirt above the dense greenery. Her Stiletto self-destructed seconds later in the distance, disintegrating mid-air. Darius slowed his ship and circled back towards the pod drop locations. There was very little room to put his ship down near Shay’la. But there was also the other pod. It had to have been Ramar. There was a clearing five hundred meters to the east of his pod drop location. He moved the ship over there and began to execute a landing sequence. He thought back to the scene of the explosion. He had not seen anything else escape the ship. No cargo containers had been dropped before the explosion. His sensors didn’t pick up anything else other than debris around the area, but there was no sign of Kordan.

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2007/07/06/part-4-dangerous-skies/feed/0Part 3 – The Enemy of My Enemyhttp://vandeamon.com/2007/03/14/part-3-the-enemy-of-my-enemy/
http://vandeamon.com/2007/03/14/part-3-the-enemy-of-my-enemy/#respondWed, 14 Mar 2007 21:12:23 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=202Read More]]>A battle-scarred Rupture cruiser gracefully slid into the dim lighting of the docking bay and parked in the center, guided with pinpoint accuracy by the station interlink to the ship’s navigation system. Through the various large alcoves on either side of the dock, other ships in similar disrepair were visible either making an entrance or already docked and being attended to by emergency crews and station drones that were buzzing around them. With an almost eerie sense of symphony, his ship was subjected to the same welcoming party by small robotic droids using nanoprobes to repair the damage to the armor.

The hatch slid open amidst the distinct buzzing of the drones’ anti-gravity drives and regular short bursts of Halon gas, sprayed from the nozzles under the drones’ nano-probes every time the flames pick up again. Darius stepped firmly onto the walkway leading to the ships hatch, his exit from the ship announced to all by the sound of his heavy boots rattling the gantry. Darius took a few steps away from the towering Rupture before turning to watch the ballet of drones dance across his vision. Things were a little different now he had joined the Freelance Unincorporated crew some months earlier. His old corporation could never have afforded such things. Nor were they necessary back then for such a small corporation as his.

Already the station crew chief for this hangar section was approaching his ship, eyeing up the damage and shaking his head with a smile on his face.

“Damn,” muttered the chief to no one in particular as he slowed his approach. “You surely found the limit of this ship, young man.” He chuckled. Darius was in no mood for his jibes, however comically intentioned they were. He simply walked past the crew chief who looked on blankly, before shaking his head in Darius’ wake.

“There’s talk about a celebration in the bar later,” he shouted after Darius as he continued to walk away, unresponsive. “Fine…” he finally grumbled to himself after giving up on any response.

The chief went about his business in the hangar before reporting to Admiral Maggot, the CEO of the corporation.

“Seven ships in need of a repair job. I ordered a couple more replacement frigates, though I am sure I don’t need to tell you who for.” Maggot chuckled as the chief continued his report, knowing the ships were for their self-styled frigate ace, Khaldorn. “Three ships are dry of ammo and are being restocked. I also have a request for a refit on Commander Zoolkhan’s Tempest so I’m going to get the night crew started on that when they come in.”

“Excellent,” replied Maggot. “And how about the crew?” It was a more appropriate question to ask a chief mechanic than one might think. Usually, the first people to see the crew as they arrive are the hangar crew and any problems would be picked up on quickly by them first. Most times the chief would reply that everything is ok, or let him know about casualties. This time, he paused for thought.

“There… mostly fine.”

“Mostly?”

“Well, except one. Young Shakor.” Maggot settled back in his chair and exhaled, almost a groan of frustration, as he rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know what to make of him sir. He’s always moody when he comes back from an op. I was beginning to suspect it was me that he didn’t like at first, but I hear he is like that with most people. So I guess you could say he is… normal.” The chief shrugged in conclusion.

“Obviously, he is still not over what happened with his brother. Who would be?” He mused to himself. “He joined the fight to help prevent slavers from ruining others lives the way they had ruined the lives of his family. From what he has told me, there’s a long and bitter history there.”

“He helped to liberate over 200 slaves today in Amarr space sir. You would think he would be proud of that.”

“He’s not in it to seek rewards or self-gratification chief, just the opportunity to get revenge.” Maggot allowed his comments to trail off before turning back to the chief. “Thank you for the report chief. Dismissed.” The chief snapped a salute and left Maggot’s office, leaving him to his thoughts.

The music reverberated deep in Darius’ ears, mixed with the distorted sound of a hundred conversations battling with the rhythm. The noise was deafening and became more of a high pitch whine with each second. Despite this, he persevered to make out the conversation between Khaldorn and Vir who were seated at the same table as he was. Every time he managed to make out a couple of words his attention would waver once more, and would be lost in a sea of sounds. His attention was once more brought back to the conversation as Vir slapped Darius on the back while laughing at Khaldorn. Darius quickly smiled and nodded as if he understood what was so funny, but he had missed it completely.

Darius scanned the room as his comrades continued to laugh and cheer, now joined by Christa and Tabak. Sat in the corner booth, Darius could make out two more members of Freelance through the gloom created by the smoke and the poor lighting. The CEO Maggot and his second in command Zoolkhan were engaged in what looked like a serious discussion with each other. Most likely discussing the results of the raid and future considerations. Hanging on the edge of the conversation was the old man, Corin Raven. Formerly of Freelance Unincorporated, he had since moved on to join the Masuat’aa Matari tribe. He was actually surprised to see him after such a while since they moved their operations further from Pator. No doubt he was in the station on other business. Darius had a sense of pride every time he talked to that man, who carried so much respect with his clan and many others. After a long moment, Darius finally realized that Corin had been quietly watching him the whole time. Unsure of himself, he quickly turned his attention back to his own table. Looking at the bottle he clutched in his hand, and seeing there was a little left in the bottom, and gulped it down before making his excuses to his fellow pilots and left the bar. Having watched from the corner, the old warrior Corin stayed a moment longer before he made his own excuses to the commanders and followed at a distance.

The darkness of the damp cell was disturbed once more. A tortured soul withered in the corner, the very light emanating from the doorway seemed to avoid contact. A pair of bloodshot eyes peered from the shadows, straining to see what was beyond, the light through the door impossibly bright.

Within moments, the white light was obscured by several large, dark figures moving into the room, quickly surrounding him. Large hands, with an inhumanly strong grip, clenched around his quivering wrists. He screamed and tried to shake their vice-like grip, thrashing with what little energy he had left.

No sooner had they dragged him to his feet, one made his way behind, just out of his blurred vision. He was held in place for a couple of seconds, facing the open door. Another figure, somewhat smaller than those before, stepped into the doorway. A dark silhouette motioned with hands and a quiet word to the large men, barely comprehensible. He felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck which became a burning sensation spreading deep into his body. His heart raced rapidly and sweat crept to the surface of his skin as his muscles burned hot like smoldering coals. The feeling seemed to pass as quickly as it began leaving him cold like ice, his ears full of the sound of rushing water. For what seemed like several moments, time stood still as the new figure came into clear view, the first face he had seen in what seemed like a life’s age. The face he saw chilled his soul and slowly, as he blacked out, he was beginning to realize what had happened and where he was.

Darius paced the hangar deck slowly, the shadow of his Rupture sprawled across the sickly green hangar deck like a dark cloth. The ship, undoubtedly one of the most dangerous looking ships in the space lanes today, was suspended silently above as if it were a dark angel were watching over him. Compared to when he docked after the operation, the hangar was now much more deserted save for the occasional crewman strolling between ships and diagnostic consoles before disappearing once more into the main storage beyond the landing pad. He welcomed the quiet as it was now in contrast to the scene he had left in the bar.

A soft noise from behind grabbed his attention in the quiet space as he quickly turned. An old and familiar figure was advancing towards him, the warmth and friendliness barely making it through his weathered face, but there none the less.

“It’s good to see you again, Master Corin,” began Darius with a faint smile. “How is life in the Masuat’aa tribe?”

“Satisfying.” Replied Corin after a short pause, as if thinking his answer over carefully. His look became more inquisitive, all most invasive as he stared Darius in the eyes. “Yours doesn’t seem to be, though.” He finally added. Darius averted his eyes down for a second, trying to think of something else to say.

“No, it is.” He eventually protested. “I feel like a part of something here.”

“If you say so, I will not disagree. But, something troubles you young Shakor. I have known you since you were a child, and lived long before that too.” What Darius knew he was saying without words was that there was no use hiding something from him. He was right.

“I… We freed many today. I took down a convoy ship and one of their escort ships as well. I…” Corin looked on silently, his stare not giving a trace of his emotions. “I don’t feel anything.”

“So?”

“You don’t understand. I don’t feel unhappy about killing an unarmed convoy. I don’t think about the people on their ship that didn’t make it out alive.”

“They are your enemy.” Growled Corin. “Why should you want to feel for them?”

“I don’t feel happy either. Not about blowing up an enemy, or about freeing the slaves from the cargo pods. I know in my heart that these are good things but I take no joy from it.” Darius lifted his gaze from the hangar floor and looked across the hangar deck towards his ship. Its hull almost repaired, showing little giveaway signs of the previous battle. A long silence grew between the men. Corin not sure what to make of Darius’ situation, and Darius hard pressed to give a reason why he felt the way he did.

Eventually, Corin turned to Darius.

“Tell me, young Shakor, what would you seek pleasure from?” Darius looked Corin in the eyes. He didn’t know what was being asked of him. “Did you join the fight to seek pleasure from it? Did you expect to gain joy from your deeds?” Darius’ eyes shifted slightly as he tried to think of an honest answer.

“No,” he confessed. He looked up once more to see Corin grinning at him.

“Then what’s the problem? If you are seeking some satisfaction it is not from this.” Darius knew he was right. He had been looking in the wrong place. He knew he was helping his people, and he wanted to do that. But not to satisfy himself.

“Something is still missing,” mused Darius. “I just feel empty.”

“Give it time. All voids are destined to be filled with time. Soon, you will come to what you need.” Both men fell to silence again as they watched several crewmen, most in clean uniforms, enter the hangar beyond housing Zoolkhan’s Tempest battleship. The night shift had arrived to commence a refit. Through the immense alcove, Zoolkhan’s large figure was clearly visible, following the deck crew and waving his hands in various places as if he were figuratively painting his orders in thin air for the mechanics. Darius knew this was going to be a long night for that unfortunate crew. For others like Zoolkhan, who never seemed to sleep, it was just the beginning of the next day.

The recent months had brought new prospects to pilots who were fortunate to fly a pod fitted ship. Newer ships had recently been introduced to the space lanes by major contractors within the empires. For others, they had been fortunate to gain research materials from the failed Crielere research facility. Slowly such technologies had been researched more and wider applications had trickled into the mainstream. Recently, Darius had acquired one of the latest spawns of such technology, a modified Rifter frigate known as the Wolf, complete with modified weapons. Based on the Rifter’s shell, the Wolf has unusually high armor tolerances for a small ship and is almost as fast as most frigates.

Darius was more than content with the ship as he put it through its paces, weaving at high speeds through empty space as if he were navigation a dense asteroid belt with a penchant for a quick death. Obviously heavier than the Rifter, it was more designed to attack larger targets. It had the strength to play against the bigger guns, and the speed to keep clear of their defenses. He hoped to put it to the test in combat shortly too. It would surely give some of the biggest cruisers in the galaxy a sweat.

The thought of combat dwelled in Darius’ mind. His mood was still dark, despite his conversation with Corin days earlier. His mind was a little clearer, however, and he felt a little more focused. Selecting a system two jumps away, Darius activated the autopilot and headed to a known location where the feeble pirates of the Angel corporation congregated from time to time. The shiny black ship gracefully arced towards the jumpgate and entered a warp tunnel.

Two jumps later, his ship de-cloaked as he activated the warp drive and fed the computer the coordinates of the small installation. As quickly as he entered warp, he arrived at the target that lingered near the third moon of Aedald VI. Before him, mired in a dull dust cloud, a twisted feature dotted with strong metal structures on its surface loomed in the darkness. Once a private mining outpost for a modest Minmatar corporation that helped rebuild soon after his people gained independence from the Amarr, it now stood abandoned. Frequented occasionally only by the Angel cartel pilots in this area, it was treated as a stop over on longer journeys between their assets in the Minmatar Republic and their home systems in the outer region known as Curse, where much of their time over the last few years had been spent in an infrequent war with the alliance of corps known as the Curse Alliance. However, the Curse Alliance as it was known had recently dissolved in the last week, leaving the remaining members in a power struggle. Skirmishes had already been reported between former member corporations and a civil war situation was obviously brewing. Still, with all the activity on their doorstep, there must still be Angel pirates holding in this part of space.

Normally, one could get lucky and happen across a small swarm of their ships and possibly some of their veteran pilots flying larger vessels. The bounties from CONCORD could range from pointless to appealing. Today, however, was not a lucky day. In fact, quite the opposite as it seemed someone had already visited before him and cleared the area. Several chunks of debris were clearly visible, some still smoldering with small flames. This battle scene was fresh. An alarm sounded somewhere in Darius’ senses. He gave up trying to figure out where exactly since he was linked to his ship via a neural link in his pod. He checked the feed from his sensors as three ships moved out from behind the facility. They were not Angel’s and were registered as wanted pilots by CONCORD and the Republic. In the second it took Darius to contemplate engaging them, they had already made that choice for him, quickly locking him and disrupting his warp drive. His communication channel buzzed and he accessed the incoming message.

“I am Xander Doriv,” began the voice with a heavy Caldari accent. “Since you have no bounty, unlike these Angels, it would be a waste to destroy your ship. If you transmit a sum of twenty million isk to my account, I could be persuaded not to fire on you.” Darius savored the irony. Pirates killing pirates for their bounty. It may have seemed strange if he had not gained some insight into the situation. Many pirates saw their bounty as a mark of respect. Killing another pirate for their bounty must be akin to taking that badge away from them in some warped and twisted sense. Quickly, he checked the ships. They were all frigates. The lead was a Merlin, a classic Caldari design and one of the mainstays of the Caldari combat fighter ships. This was escorted by a mixed bag of a Herron and an Incursus. He let the transmission linger for a second longer before responding.

“What’s to stop me from firing first?” He enquired. The response he got was coarse laughter. It seemed they were not going to go quietly.

“Your ship’s warp drive is disabled, my Minmatar friend. And you are outnumbered three to one. I doubt your chances.” Again, Darius paused for thought as he considered his response. He replied by assigning their ships as target locks for his weapons. Quickly, he selected the lead ship that had communicated him and fired a full barrage of autocannon fire while he accelerated towards his wingman.

“Shit!” His enemy cursed down the comm line as his Merlin’s shields were battered down in seconds. “That wasn’t smart!” He continued before the communication line went dead. The three ships broke formation and attempted to gain a firing position on Darius’ ship to support their leader. Their efforts were simply in vain however as the Merlin was already taking armor damage. It responded in its death throws with a mix of rail gun fire and missiles, all with mixed results as only a few of them hit his Wolf’s shields, barely causing a dent. By comparison, their equipment was out of date and outclassed against the assault ship that was beginning to live up to its name, ravenously tearing chunks out of the stricken pirate’s frigate as the bulkheads rapidly buckled. Multi-coloured plasma streams and gasses leaked from various vents and holes created by the raking autocannon fire and swirled violently in the wake of the escape pod that jettisoned from the ship seconds before it exploded. The whole encounter had taken a few short seconds but had indeed impressed Darius with the power of this ship.

He selected the next target as the Incursus that had quickly gained a close position to him and was letting loose with a volley of blaster fire. The damage to his shields was minimal, further impressing Darius as he opened fire with his own guns. The simple numbers game was in play as Darius had more armor, more shields and more guns than both his enemies put together. The Incursus made a desperate attempt to escape as the fight was becoming clearly one sided. While aligning for warp to a nearby planet to escape, a stream of greenish gas passed by the thruster contrails and ignited in a blinding explosion. Darius pulled away as the Incursus lost control, spinning from the force of the fire jet off the port side before being consumed in the flames and exploding. Once more, Darius registered an escape pod leaving the area with haste as he turned his attention towards the final prey.

In his chase towards the Herron, Darius realized it was not attempting to run. It was the weakest of the three ships and the pilot had to know he would lose. It was not like them to have such honor in battle as to fight to their death and they usually ran quickly when outnumbered. As he realized this, the answer to his question was quickly presented, as more warnings were sounded. Darius checked his sensors again as several more ships warped in, significantly larger than the ones he had destroyed. Three were Osprey class cruisers and they were escorting a Maller and Thorax lead ships. Quickly the Ospreys assaulted his ship, adding to the warp scramble and also jamming his propulsion system, holding the Wolf in place. Darius cursed himself, now realizing that he should have known better. Pirates rarely operate in small bands, attacking in frigates, and they hardly ever show their full numbers unless needed. If he had destroyed the jammer ship first he could have gotten away quickly. Now he was definitely in trouble. The laser fire from the Maller rained down on his ship, cutting vibrant beams of light through the darkness of space and striking his shields. The damage was significantly higher than before, but even then the shields held, absorbing much of the damage with their advanced dampening capabilities. The Thorax was now moving in close and was no doubt fitted with blasters. Ripples of energy leaped from the Thorax as it fired all of its guns. Darius was helpless as the jamming ships were out of his guns effective range. Only the Thorax was in range, so he selected it from the target list and fired as his shields quickly disintegrated. Bolts of flaming energy and light struck his armor plating, shuddering the fuselage. Darius turned on the energized plating to hold off some of the damage as his guns pelted the larger cruiser. The damage to the Thorax was minimal and it was obvious he would not survive long. Suddenly, the numbers game was not in his favor.

He grimaced even more as three more ships warped into the fight and quickly made their way into gun range. They were fast for cruisers and were unusual in their design. He vaguely recognized them as another new class of ship, known as the Vagabond. A modified Stabber cruiser much like his own Wolf, only on a larger scale. This was the end. He watched as the Vagabond ships lunged into the battle area and launched a salvo of missiles. The missiles streaked past him and stuck directly on the Thorax cruiser. In less than a minute the Thorax had lost all of its shield power and much of its armor as the Vagabonds, flying in formation, strafed past raking the pirate cruiser with autocannon fire. After just a single pass, the Thorax’s hull contorted as its structure failed and detonated in a ball of fire that blinded Darius’ camera drone for a second. Their attention was quickly turned on the jamming cruisers that had already released his Wolf to help attack their new enemy. The attack was vicious as the cruisers swooped on their new targets. Darius contemplated his next move as his ship broke free. He was unsure who the newcomers were, or what their intentions were. One thing he did know, he owed them for saving him. As the first Osprey exploded, Darius turned towards the Maller lingering on the edge of the fight. He quickly covered the distance towards the cruiser, the laser beams skimming his ships hull and fired at the limit of his guns range. He had barely scratched the Maller’s shields as the remaining two Osprey ships exploded behind him, the Herron long since abandoning the fight. The heavy assault ships gracefully turned in their never breaking formation and flocked towards the Maller that was quickly losing its shields. The fight was swift as the Vagabond’s orbited, quickly wearing down the last pirate, finally succumbing to the concentrated fire before the main reactor exploded in a brilliant ball of flames.

An escape pod quickly left the area, unchallenged by either party, as Darius and the newcomers rested their ships. Darius was weary of their intentions and ignored various system warnings about the damage to his ship. He had always held the view that the enemy of his enemy was not always a friend. Their ships sat in their formation facing him, not moving or attempting to communicate to him. Darius weighed up his options as he checked his systems. In doing so, he could see he was not being targeted. After he was content with the status of his ship, he finally opened his comms unit to satisfy his curiosity.

“Nice ships,” he began “Though I’m more curious abou…”

“It’s quite rude not to introduce yourself before asking questions,” interrupted the curt voice. Darius paused for a second.

“It’s also rude to interrupt someone while they’re talking,” he retorted. “Or at least not offer an explanation for their actions.”

“I didn’t know people had to explain their reasons for a good deed these days,” came the reply. Darius noted the voice from the lead ship was female.

“OK, Let’s start again. I’m…”

“Darius Shakor. Yes, I know.” Darius was already becoming frustrated with this conversation.

“If you know who I am,” he spat. “Then why the hell did you ask me to introduce myself… and, you interrupted me again!”

“Am I starting to annoy you?”

“Yes dammit! What do you want from me?”

“My, you do have a temper don’t you.” She teased. “Chiron warned me about that.” Darius was about to start making demands when he caught the name she dropped. Chiron was Darius’ agent in the security service who he had dealt with for over a year.

“Chiron? You know her?”

“I work with her. I’m one of her field agents.”

“Well, it’s a small universe, isn’t it? Now if you will excuse me.” Darius began to power up his warp drives when she spoke again.

“She asked me to track you down. I need your help.” Darius powered his engines down again. “It was actually very easy to find you. Surprising since a man in your position should take all precautions to avoid being caught. What with the freedom fight and everything.”

“OK, Talk.” He replied.

“Not here.” To punctuate her words, her escort ships broke formation and warped away in different directions. “We’re about to be interrupted, and I know how much you hate that. More pirate ships have entered the system, all battleships.” Her own ship began to move as his ship’s navigation computer registered an incoming waypoint. “Head here. It’s three systems away. Dock at the Caldari Business Tribunal station there and wait for me.”

“Wait…”

“You had better hurry before those battleships get here and make a light snack of you. Speak to you soon.”

“Who are you?” It was too late. Her ship had already departed and the comms link was cut. Darius cursed to himself before viewing the waypoint. He set his destination there and quickly engaged his warp drive as four Megathron class battleships quickly entered the area, just in time to see his engine trails stretched into warp.

Light. Bright and multicolored. Images flooded his senses. Sounds of every conceivable noise deafened his mind. He was strapped to a chair, a large cocoon of metal tubes, plates and wires that stretched across the room to a large console covered his head. It was not the first time he had been brought here, though he could not remember the last. He screamed in pain and fear. The images were of death. A face flashed with each scene. It was familiar, and something deep down began to boil within. A Brutor, a man, a brother. He was causing the death. The same death replayed over and over. A small fighter ship being cut to pieces by laser fire. The armor plating bubbling with the heat around the holes created by the laser. Hull plating being ripped from the bulkheads by the decompression, hideously bending and twisting the small ship. The escape pod ejects amongst a flurry of light and fire, struck by a missile. A body is hurled free, torn by the void of space. He screamed as the face flashed before his eyes again. He hated that face. He hated it.

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2007/03/14/part-3-the-enemy-of-my-enemy/feed/0Part 2 – Revisiting Sinshttp://vandeamon.com/2006/11/16/part-2-revisiting-sins/
http://vandeamon.com/2006/11/16/part-2-revisiting-sins/#respondThu, 16 Nov 2006 18:51:14 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=201Read More]]>The small, metal-walled room was poorly lit, save for a small candle burning on a low stool against a wall. A dark figure kneeling in front of the candle cast a barely noticeable shadow across the hard carpeted floor. Hands firmly gripping his kneecaps, Darius’ eyes were clenched tight as he tried to focus on his meditation. Not even able to control his breathing, Darius gave up the struggle and opened his eyes, relaxing his shoulder and neck muscles. He had not noticed how tense he was until that moment. He let out a deep breath and sighed as he rose to his feet. Darius made his way through the dark to his bathroom to get a glass of water. His throat was dry from the re-circulated air in the station quarters. At times like this, he craved the tranquillity of home on Matar. The humidity in the air would be a welcome change from the coarse air provided by the station’s air filters. Not to mention that there were too many distractions in a station to even contemplate meditation. There was a slight but constant deep humming noise that seemed to reverberate through the solid structure. It was even more noticeable, and somewhat irritating, when he was sitting in silence in a dark room trying to clear his mind.

Darius waved a hand over an optical sensor mounted to the wall of the bathroom and, with a reluctant flicker, the lights switched on. As he ran the water and put the glass under it, he caught his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were red and sore looking. They were sad. He rubbed them gently, smearing a tear across his cheek. The memory of his late brother Kordan’s death came back to him. He dropped the glass into the basin and ran his hands under the cold tap, splashing the water on his face and around his eyes. He tried to wash the tears away, but he could still feel them.

It had only been a week since the funeral that took place on his home island. His brother’s last will and testament had requested that he be cremated and his ashes spread over a lake in the center of the island. He had taken his brother to that lake as a child countless times to swim, as their mother had done for him when he was a child. He had not been to that lake in nearly ten years. Darius was surprised at the fact that Kordan had even prepared a will, let alone given it some thought. He always seemed to be one to live for the moment and never made plans for the future. Darius could not help but think of their last conversation that day before he was killed trying to destroy an Angel Cartel scouting operation, and his pod failed to transmit the neural pattern. In their last words, they had butted heads. Amongst the tirade, Darius had told Kordan that he always acted immature. After the funeral service, Darius felt the pain of those words even more. He realized that his brother was more mature than he had come to think, or ever showed him.

Darius broke his stare on his own reflection as the console in his room beeped to let him know he had a message waiting his attention. Stepping back into the room, he sat at the desk, not even bothering to raise the lights. The crystal screen flickered to life displaying the corporation logo as he tapped the panel. The logo faded and the main interface loaded, casting a bright light over the desktop. He opened his mailbox, then frowned as he saw the name of the sender. The subject heading read “We need to talk.” Not even bothering to open the mail, Darius selected the message and stabbed his finger on the delete button with contempt. As quickly as the message had arrived, it was gone again.

The Probe class frigate hovered at a dizzyingly high altitude above the hangar floor. Looking at it, Darius wondered why it didn’t just sit on the hangar deck. After all, there was an access hatch was on the bottom of the ship’s three levels. And they did have landing gear struts anyway. He could simply walk up some stairs and step through the airlock. Darius was supervising the loading of some supplies into the cargo frigate. A friend had asked him to spare some reactor modules and a couple of guns for his cruiser. By his side, the crew chief was tapping his data pad, occasionally raising his head to yell at his hangar crew. Darius said nothing the whole time. He simply watched the chaotic scene in the hangar as people scurried around with a single job in mind. Somewhere in this tangled mess, Darius knew there was a pattern that showed some order. There had to be, as the pile of ship modules had almost vanished as it was loaded onto the back of a hover-lift ready to be raised towards the ships cargo hatch.

High above, on an overhanging walkway, two technicians were entering the hatch that leads to the command deck of the ship. Darius watched them for a second before glancing at the crew chief.

“Just a routine service check sir.” He noted as casually as he could. It seemed too rehearsed to Darius who raised a curious eyebrow at him.

“Never heard of this routine, so try again.”

“Eh well…” Darius straightened up to the chief and frowned. “Sorry. It’s just… with your brother and what happened to him…” Darius’ face relaxed as he averted his eyes towards the floor. Again, his face grew sad. “I can’t help but think that if someone had checked the pod, it would have functioned properly. I feel responsible.”

“It’s OK.” Responded Darius quietly. “I think there’s enough guilt to go around.” Darius was about to say something else, but could not muster the strength. His throat tightened and his eyes began to swell. He didn’t hold the chief or anyone else responsible. He was the only one he blamed. In an attempt to salvage some dignity, he walked quickly towards the hangar exit and stepped through into the empty hallway. Not even able to make it to the sanctuary of his private room, he slumped his back against the wall and rested his head in his hands.

The chief, feeling a little awkward, attempted to busy himself with more work. Amongst other things, he grabbed a couple of crewmen and asked them to make an audit of the corporation hangar and update inventory. Turning to his data pad, he checked off one more item on the list before scouring the hangar for his next victims. He spotted a small group heading for the same door Darius just went through. Knowing Darius likely needed some solitude, he shouted to them.

“Where are you guys going?” He asked. It was more a question of habit than a real query. He know they were likely heading out for a break, but he didn’t want them to walk in on Darius. Not even letting the men answer, he turned round to a small pile of crates stacked rather precariously in the middle of a clearway. “That’s a safety hazard. No one gets a break until that is sorted out!” The men looked despondently at the stack, knowing that it would take them some time to move them. “Never mind that look, you can have extra time on your breaks if you move them back into the stores and do it neatly.” The men sighed in resignation, and walked towards the crates. One of the crewmen stood for a second longer, looking back at the door.

“Something wrong with your hearing crewman?” he asked sternly. Ignoring him, the crewman followed his comrades to the pile, who had already taken hold of one of the containers. The chief shook his head as he turned back to the data pad and instinctively ticked off one more item on the list before strolling across the hangar to the administration office door. As he neared, a crew supervisor jogged over to him with a pad in his hand.

“Sir!” he said intently as he got close. “I think you should see this.” He handed the pad to the chief displaying a replay of energy current readings.

“The pod?” he asked.

“Yes sir. These are the readings we just took from the secondary power coupler.” The chief looked again, squinting as he attempted to determine what he was supposed to be looking at. The technician reached over and tapped the panel again. “Keep an eye on the mid-range signatures… there!” The chief nodded as the frequency oscillations registered a faint, regular spike.

“Yeah I see it. Power surge. It seems to happen every…”

The chief was cut short by a hollow and deafening bang from above as the front of the Probe cargo ship hovering above the hangar exploded in a ball of fire. The shockwave crashed against the station structure, and crewmen were thrown off their feet. Large chunks of the ship hull plating fell to the deck in flames, trailing plumes of dark smoke and dust behind them. Other smaller parts ricocheted off the hangar walls before falling to the floor. Some lights were shattered by the explosion, shortly followed by the rest flickering off as the emergency lighting kicked in, casting a dim orange glow in the rapidly thickening smoke. As the wake of the explosion still rang in the air, a klaxon sounded through the hangar with a repeating automated message:

Darius rose to his feet after being knocked down by the shudder in the hallway. He opened the hatchway to the hangar and was quickly enveloped in a thick cloud of dust and smoke. He staggered through the blinding cloud, occasionally stumbling over rubble. The orange mist was disorientating, only giving him a limited view of the floor below his feet. He glanced up and saw a dark figure heading towards him. As it emerged from the smoke into view, he saw it was a crewman, dragging another injured man by his shoulder.

“Help me.” he wheezed, fighting for breath in the smog and struggling to walk straight. High above in the darkness, a secondary explosion ripped through the hangar, sending a fresh swirl of dust and smoke towards them and showering the deck with debris. The crewman fell to the floor again, turning over to land on top of the injured man, covering him from the blast. Darius crouched low and covered his head as small pieces of metal dropped all around them. When the hail stopped, Darius helped the crewman up off his friend, and realized the injured man was the crew chief. Blood, mixed with black dust and surrounded by burns, covered his face as a large wound on the side of his head flowed steadily.

“Grab his arms!” shouted the crewman as he slung one of the chiefs arms around his shoulder. Darius did the same with his other arm and they hoisted him off the floor. Darius looked around and found the door he had come through in the thinning dust cloud.

“This way!” he yelled over the klaxon, and both men started to drag the chief towards the exit. As they neared, Darius could feel his legs giving way as he fought to breathe. The physical exertion in the heavy dust was making it even harder to breath and both men were getting weak. The door ahead opened and several bulky figures in haz-mat environmental suits emerged, their flashlights casting a beam through the haze. Bright neon-glowing strips on their suits read ‘DAC-SAR’ for Damage Control – Search And Rescue The first two ran past them and headed towards a blaze created by the debris with fire fighting equipment. Two hands grabbed the chief from the side and lifted his weight off the crewman’s and Darius’ shoulders. Another two rescue members took hold of Darius and the crewman who had both dropped to their knees and helped them out of the hangar towards the corridor beyond the door.

Darius sat on the bed in the emergency room and coughed violently, attempting to clear the stinging in the back of his throat, only aggravating it further. A young Caldari medic passed him some water.

“Take steady sips.” He said. “You likely inhaled a lot of dust. Just try to breathe slowly and steady.” He glared at the young junior medic intently. To Darius, it felt like someone had wrapped a plastic bag around his head, suffocating him slowly. He wondered if the young medic would be able to breath slow and steady if he choked him with his bare hands. He then shifted his gaze across the room. The DAC-SAR members were still bringing in people from the hangar. Some were not too badly injured, others were covered in burns and cuts. Near the door, the crew chief lay motionless on a gurney with a couple of doctors working on him. Stood behind them was the other crew member who he had helped to carry the chief from the hanger. Darius stood up and walked over to him. Clearing his throat with some more water he approached the crewman.

“What…” Darius coughed again, fighting to clear his throat. “What… happened?” Between his own coughing fits, the crewman told him about the ship exploding in the hangar and a large piece of metal striking the chief in the side of the head.

“Gentlemen,” interrupted the young medic again. “You should be resting. We need to run some tests. You might have inhaled some chemicals.” Wanting to protest, but not even able to muster the strength, Darius walked back to his bed and sat down.

Curled in the corner, naked and covered in a slightly luminous blue gel, the male Brutor quivered. Scars were evident along his ankles and wrists as well as slight electrical burns on his back.

A dim shaft of light, emanating from a slit in the heavy steel door, was the only illumination in the room. It never moved and never faded, yet it was not enough to bring light to the four stone walls. A cold dampness chilled the air and covered the walls and floor. There was no bench, no chair, no table and no facilities. He was a prisoner.

A series of hollow clunks beyond the door sent the man into a fit of shock. He tried to push his way through the solid stone wall behind him. Panic ran through every artery in his body and his eyes widened with fear as the noise stopped outside the door. He whimpered to himself as he sat still on the cold floor. Among his ramblings, he pleaded for help, but no one was there to give it to him.

He jumped as a loud clatter rang from the door and the lock was opened. The door swung wide casting a painfully bright light into the room. Several large men swarmed into the room and towered over him. With no regard for his comfort, they grabbed his arms and hoisted him off the floor to his feet. He squirmed and fought to free himself as the nightmare continued. He could not remember how he got here and he had not known how long he had been captive.

One of the guards brought the stock of his weapon down on the back of this tormented soul’s head, rendering him unconscious with a sickening crack. As the nightmare faded to black, he knew it would not go away. It would be waiting for him again, when he awoke.

Two days after the accident, his corporation hangar was still sealed off for damage control and repairs. Darius had been released from the sickbay after an overnight observation and had attempted to regain some normality. His quarters were now his office until the station’s corporation liaison assigned him some new space. His ships were in the process of being moved into another hangar and the salvaged equipment from the stores had already been moved. It was fortunate that the ammo stored among the various crates didn’t go up with the explosion otherwise that section of the station might have breached.

His throat was still a little coarse from the dust, and he had been drinking a lot of fluids as well as taking some medication. He had inhaled some chemical dust while in the hangar and needed the pills to fight the nausea he was beginning to suffer. Fortunately, it was not serious and he would recover, as would the young crewman. The chief, however was in worse shape. He suffered internal hemorrhaging and several fractures to the skull. The last he had heard this morning was that he was stable… for now. Darius was just readying himself to leave for the sickbay and visit him.

Darius entered a lift down the hallway from his quarters and tapped the desired deck number. The sickbay was two decks below.

“Hold the door please!” shouted a familiar voice as the doors began to close. Darius tapped the hold button and waited as a young Minmatar woman trotted down the hall. As she drew nearer, Darius recognized her. It was Chiron Ferral, his agent. Darius groaned and let go of the button, but it was too late. She slipped through the door and into the lift. Quickly, the lift began to descend through the station.

“You’re a hard man to get hold of lately.” She remarked instantly, not giving an awkward silence time to develop. Darius simply shrugged. “You never responded to my message the other day. I was beginning to think you were deliberately ignoring me.”

“Maybe I was.” Darius muttered staring straight ahead into the elevator doors, willing them to open.

“I see.” She replied quietly. As if on cue, the doors opened and Darius quickly stepped out and down the hall. Chiron frowned. “I guess you don’t want to know who’s trying to kill you!” she shouted after him. Darius did not stop. “Or what I found out about Kordan’s death?” Darius slowed his pace before stopping completely. She stepped out of the lift as the doors closed behind her and stood for a second. Darius did not turn around. “OK then.” She said and turned to walk the other way.

“Wait!” he turned round and walked towards her. She was already halfway down the hall. “WAIT!” He shouted again, this time running after her. He grabbed her arms and pinned her to the wall. She yelped more from surprise than pain as he gripped her shoulders. “What happened?” He growled. Her eyes locked with his, a calm steely resilience showing him she was not afraid. “TELL ME!”

“If you let me go, I will.” Darius released his grip on her, making no apology. “I don’t know if you blame me or not for Kordan’s death, but the truth is that I was used.”

“Just get to the point.” He demanded. “Tell me what you know.”

“It’s best that you see what I have back in my office. It might not even be safe to talk here.” Darius paused for thought before nodding his head. They both stepped back towards the lift and entered it again, this time going up several decks to the administration level.

“And by the way…” she started plainly, “that hurt.” Darius suddenly came to his senses and grimaced sheepishly as she massaged her arm.

“Sorry…” was all he could say. It had been a rough couple of weeks.

Several floors up, Darius sat in the agent’s office.

“I never told you how sorry I am about Kordan.” She said. “I felt guilty since he was on a mission I facilitated when he died.” She could see Darius shifting impatiently in his seat. She cut to the heart of the matter. “So I started my own investigation the minute I heard his clone was not activated correctly. All the information about the cloning incident was pat of an official CONCORD report, so I requisitioned it and looked deeper. A recovery ship was sent from a nearby station at my request to a local agent. Since we are both friends, he was willing to help me. And it was also him that passed along the tip off he originally received about that Arch Angel scouting party, so he wanted to know what happened too. The fact that the tip was anonymous made both him and myself wonder.” Darius groaned and rubbed his head in frustration.

“Please get to the point.” She frowned and passed him a small data pad. It was burnt and cracked, not even functioning.

“That was found in the hangar near where your crew chief was injured. I spoke with the crewman who helped rescue him from the hangar, and he told me he was showing this to him before your ship exploded the other day.”

“…it’s broken.” He stated plainly before tossing it back on the desk with a clatter. She rolled her eyes.

“We recovered the readings taken from it. They are power signals from your pod in your ship. There are numerous spikes in the power flow. There’s a pattern. Darius, it’s a countdown.” He looked up at her.

“Sabotage?”

“Your pod’s power systems were tampered with, the secondary safeguards were disabled, and the system overload. While that only produced a small blast, that explosion then ruptured a main power conduit, blowing up the cabin of your ship.” Darius leaned back a second and thought about it.

“But I wasn’t in my ship. Some booby trap that turned out to be.” He scoffed.

“According to those readings it wasn’t supposed to blow for another ten minutes. The crewman running a maintenance check must have set it off prematurely.”

“You said you knew who was doing this? What does it have to do with Kordan?” She passed him another data pad.

“That was supposed to be your mission Darius, remember?” She stated plainly as Darius tapped the panel. “That was recovered from the wreckage of your brother’s Rifter.” Darius read the first page and shook his head in disbelief. “Those weapon signatures are energy based.”

“I have never heard of Angels using laser weapons.” He mused to himself.

“There’s more. Check out the next screen. A message was found on the data recovery box attached to the pod. It was the last message he received before his ship and pod was destroyed.” Darius tapped the button and read the message:

“I prey to God himself, everyday, that you would eventually be enlightened as I am. This is the only way to ensure that you are brought into the loving fold of God’s will. I look forward to seeing you again Darius.

Regards

Ramar”

Darius clenched the data pad tightly, cracking the screen. He tensed his jaw and lunged to his feet. Screaming loudly, he threw the data pad to the corner of the room, smashing it in to pieces and slammed his fists onto the desk. Chiron jumped out of her chair and into the corner of the room as the big Brutor raged, overturning the desk and threw his chair against the wall. Within moments the door to the office slid open, and two security guards dashed into the room. Chiron held her hand up to both men who halted just past the door, their stun weapons pointed at Darius.

Darius settled as quickly as he had erupted. He straightened himself, looking around at the damage he had done to the agent’s office. He was beyond caring though. Not even acknowledging the security guards or his agent Chiron, he stepped towards the door to leave. One of the guards, a Krusual, began to move to block his path.

“Let him go.” Ordered Chiron. “For your sake…” The guard stepped back again and Darius departed the room.

Returning to his quarters, Darius could think of nothing else to do but sit and stare at the walls. Rage welled up within him and it took all the willpower he could muster to contain himself. His body shook in anger with each breath he took. He thought about his friend and crew chief in the sickbay, his brother Kordan’s funeral, and the torture he had endured in Ammatar space at the hands of his former friend Ramar, now a declared enemy to the Clan Shakor. He thought about his own father, and the stories his uncle Gol’dar had told him about his father’s escape from slavery, and his painful death from the neuro-toxin soon after Darius was born. His entire family history had been that of suffering, betrayal and death at the hands of the Amarr. Not just death, but murder. Like the Amarr that murdered his father, so too had his enemy, Ramar, murdered his younger half-brother. And now he tried to murder him too.

In an instant, as if the wheel of his whole life had been turned by some celestial force, Darius was thinking along different lines for the first time. He walked towards the terminal in his room and opened the message system. He then selected a name from his list of contacts and began to type.

The small shuttle craft silently slipped through the docking tunnel and settled above the hangar floor. The hangar was dark and abandoned, as if the station itself was empty. A lone figure, covered in thick robes, departed the ship and swiftly made his way to the corporation offices attached to the hangar.

A quiet knock on the door prompted Maggot to respond.

“Enter.” He said firmly, knowing who it would be. The figure stepped into the room and stood before Maggot, who was seated at his desk with Zoolkhan standing at ease behind, and removed his hood. He stepped forwards and removed a small pad from his robe, passing it to Maggot. He browsed the pad with interest before looking up at his visitor, Darius Shakor. Standing at attention, Darius saluted Maggot.

“Reporting for duty, sir.”

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2006/11/16/part-2-revisiting-sins/feed/0Part 1 – The Fire Withinhttp://vandeamon.com/2006/06/16/part-1-the-fire-within/
http://vandeamon.com/2006/06/16/part-1-the-fire-within/#respondFri, 16 Jun 2006 11:40:08 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=200Read More]]>Darius leaned closer to the terminal in his office at the Anubis Inc. headquarters in Pator and frowned. Across the table, his younger brother Kordan could sense a change in the air as Darius growled in the back of his throat.

“Something wrong bro?” He inquired with his usual silly grin on his face. Darius did not even need to look up to know it was there. One day he was going to have that grin surgically removed from Kordan’s face, just as soon as he could find a doctor that knows how.

“Nothing…” he replied curtly followed by a pause. “Well, actually, yeah. Our resident agent for the security services has a tip off about some kind of Angel Cartel scouting operation she wants me to gatecrash. They suspect they are checking out the defenses of a remote outpost on a moon in Audensder and will be followed by a slaver fleet.”

“Great, some action.” Kordan paused when he could see his brother did not share his enthusiasm.

“It’s not even worth our time. It would take us a while to get there, and there’s not much bounty in it. Maybe a measly 20,000isk with not much more as a reward. And the bonus is a couple of junk heap ships that won’t sell for much.”

“Slashers?” asked Kordan

“Slashers? The Slasher is no junk heap brother. It’s a fine and tough ship. I’m talking about the Burst.”

“Ah, yeah those things a rather cruddy.”

Darius tapped the panel and closed the communication feed down. He leaned back in his chair and groaned again.

“I take it you are not going to accept that mission?”

“Hell no. Only problem is that we haven’t made much today and the tight bitch won’t give us anything else for a while if we refuse.”

“So you haven’t officially declined it then?”

“I’m thinking about it.” Kordan looked at Darius silently for a moment. “Go on, what is it?” Asked Darius.

“I’ve completed my training in the Rifter.” noted Kordan. Darius sighed. He knew this was some time coming. “Let me take the mission. With a bounty that small, I bet there are no cruisers right?”

“Right.” Replied Darius wearily. “But there are several Nomad class ships. You’ve never gone higher than Ruffian class Angels before today.” Darius looked back at his brother. For the first time in many months Darius could see a serious look on his brothers face. All most defiant. “What’s that look supposed to mean?”

“I’m just wondering what’s stopping me from talking to her myself and getting the mission.” Darius stared blankly for the moment.

“I just don’t want you to jump in with both feet until you’re ready.” He replied, raising his hand.

“Sure, more like you don’t think I can do it. You never trust me with anything!” Burst Kordan

“What the hell makes you think..?”

“You always talk down to me. I’m 22, not some damned kid.”

“You sure act like it some times!”

“Don’t come with that! I was the one who stood by you when you were damn near alcoholic! The entire clan was hanging in the balance when Gol’dar died. Can you honestly say that you would have gone through with accepting the clan leadership?” Darius tried to think of a retort, but had non. “It was me that came to give you moral support at the last minute and stand the vigil with you. Would an immature kid do that?” Darius shot out of his chair to his feet, his jaw tense with anger.

“And you think I don’t remember that? Or that I am not grateful?”

“If you are you don’t show it much…”

“Hey, if you want to do this mission, then I won’t stop you.” Kordan stopped and stared at his older brother with steel in his eyes. “Get your Rifter fitted and loaded with ammo, and go see if you have what it takes. If it will make you feel better then go do it.” Kordan quickly left the room, the office door slamming behind him.

Darius sat back down and took a deep breath. He had never seen Kordan like that before. Was he really that overbearing with him? His only concern was to look after him. He had done that all his life, since their mother died when Kordan was still just a kid. But we was right. He was not a kid anymore. He had never really thought too much about how he treated him in the past. Now the thought had crossed his mind, he couldn’t shake off the guilt.

Kordan began the final power sequence on his Rifter, and double checked the weapons. Nomads are slow and his 280mm howitzers would pack a punch to say the least. Especially now as he had raided the corporation hangar and found some modified gyrostabilisers. That was all he mounted to the lower slots to give extra punch to the three howitzers he had installed along side the nosferatu. He had not even installed a shield booster as he was confident that he could kill the pirates quicker than they could shoot at him, and at a greater range than they could attack from. Instead he used a tracking computer, to help the heavy guns keep up with the speed differential, and an afterburner to keep at optimal range for the artillery.

When the checks showed that his guns were all online and loaded he initiated the undock sequence. He was eager to win this fight today. Not just so he could serve the republic, but because he wanted to feel useful. His outburst to his older brother was a long time in coming, and he didn’t regret it. He wanted to start to make a name for himself in the republic as his brother had. It was not fair that he would get all the glory. And thwarting a scouting operation for slavers would be a good start. The airlock doors slid open and Kordan piloted the ship into the dark tunnel, ready to be greeted by the stars.

Despite the fact that there were many jumps between him and the target system of Audensder, the journey was swift in the fast and nimble Rifter. On arrival at Audensder, Kordan instinctively activated his list of bookmarked co-ordinates and selected the one that the agent had given him. His Rifter turned on the spot and, within seconds, was travelling at full warp speed towards a small moon on the other side of the system. Kordan afforded himself one last check of the weapons and modules to make sure they were configured correctly shortly before his ship began to pull out of the warp field. However, when he dropped from warp the scene was slightly different than he had imagined. There were no ships there, only several cargo containers floating ahead of him surrounded by debris. Had he been beaten to it? Or were these the remains of others who had tried what he was about to do, and failed? As Kordan weighed up the possibilities, and shook off the disappointment of not getting into some form of combat, he noticed his scanner was registering a faint signal behind him, moving very fast. Kordan swung the Rifter around to meet his prey, and before his nose came to bare on the intruder, he was being orbited at insanely high speeds by the target. It was moving so fast he was having a hard time keeping up with the camera drone. Suddenly, his shields were being shredded as bright streams of light were bouncing off them from the lasers. He did not need to catch view of the ship to know it was most likely an Interceptor. He had heard of the pirates using such ships in the past and suspected that the agent’s information was wrong. Though it did not matter now. He knew he would be no match for this class of ship.

He immediately selected a point in space and frantically engaged the warp engines. The ship vibrated slightly as she always did while the warp engines spooled up. A violent shudder reverberated through the entire structure as Kordan braced for the sudden acceleration of warp. Except he was still being shot at by the Interceptor when the shudder subsided. He had not moved. A warning sounded somewhere in his senses as a blindingly bright message shot past his vision stating his warp field was unstable and the drive was being shut down, obviously the enemy craft was disrupting it. He had no choice but to fight. He kicked in the full afterburners and attempted to get into a firing position on the much faster craft. A glance at his shields told him all he needed to know as he finally established a lock; this was going to be close. He was unable to get into optimal range due to the superior speed of the interceptor that he could now see as being the Amarrian designed Crusader. In desperation as another chunk of shields disappeared, he began to fire his artillery. His targeting computer registered each hit and displayed it to Kordan who cringed as the damage was only minor due to the close range. He activated his tracking computer to help them get a better lock, now thankful he had installed it. He then attempted to activate the shield booster, only to remind himself that it was not there. Suddenly, he felt very naked.

His artillery continued to boom into empty space behind the interceptor, rarely landing a blow of any significance while the remaining shells lunged deep into the darkness of space in the Crusaders wake. Suddenly, his Rifter shook violently as a missile struck home against his shields tearing them apart. He turned his attention back to the scanner and his heart sank as he realised that two more ships had joined the fray, another Crusader and an Arbitrator. As quickly as that, his ship was enveloped by an eerie blue aura as the second Crusader locked on with a propulsion jammer of some sort. The Rifter slowed quickly and was essentially dead in space. The enemy ships loomed above, their guns now silent. Kordan could not help but wonder why they were taking their time. He would be dead by now, that much he could admit in spite of his pride. His comm channel beeped to show he had an incoming message. He hesitated to read it, he was sure it would contain some kind of ransom notice or some evil gloating. He opened the message sent to him:

“I prey to God himself, everyday, that you would eventually be enlightened as I am. This is the only way to ensure that you are brought into the loving fold of God’s will. I look forward to seeing you again Darius.

Regards

Ramar”

Kordan felt a shiver resonate through his spine as he read that name. Ramar. Darius’ long time friend before he betrayed him in Ammatar space. This message was addressed to Darius.

A bright light flashed across the hull of the Arbitrator and streaked towards Kordan.

This was all a setup. He thought, absently watching as the heavy missile gained on him.

It can’t end like this… Kordan replayed the argument with his brother in his mind. He had said that he didn’t care for him. As the Crusaders orbiting above him opened fire again, he wished he could take back those words. But now he would not get that chance. Kordan took one last look with the camera drone as the missile streaked silently towards his ship, then cut the video feed.

Kordan’s ship was violently torn apart by the lasers of the Interceptors, shards of frozen oxygen crystals were hurled away from the ship as the escape pod broke free a split second before the ship’s engine core detonated, showering the tough pod with chunks of burning metal and liquid fire from the ignited plasma. The heavy missile tore through the explosion towards the centre of the fireball and the proximity fuse detonated less than 10 metres from the pod. In an instant, the pod was smashed open, exposing the inside to the unforgiving vacuum of space. The protective gel burned instantly in the fire leaving Kordan’s dead, icy body floating through the wreckage.

“Sir,” spoke the young Gallente technician, “incoming data stream.”

“OK, what’s the ID number?” asked the older Minmatar who was obviously the senior technician.

“Uh… ID: KW-494-J, Name: Kordan Shakor.” The man continued to type into his terminal. “Oh, a first timer.” He said joyfully, almost morbidly sickening.

“OK then,” The supervisor replied. “Feed the data stream to pod D-43 and pop the cork.” The man continued to casually type commands onto the panel in front of him.

“Done, the transfer was uninterrupted, zero percent cognitive degradation.” Both men got up and went through the door into the adjacent room.

Lining the walls around the room were several hundred chambers, each one holding the registered clone of a pilot kept on hold for the day when the inevitable would happen. Each clone bank had a yellow light flashing on the diagnostic screen attached to it, and a name displayed showing who this person was, or is for that matter. Tavish, the senior cloning technician had long ago given up trying to determine the proper way to address the identity of an inactive clone. Both men made their way to the pod at the far end of the room, Tavish picking up a robe on his way there from the many that were hanging from the support pillar in the middle of the clone chamber. The light was flashing green with the words “AWAITING ACTIVATION” along side, and the name was illuminated.

“Everything checks out.” spoke Deita, the other technician.

“Activate him.”

Deita pressed the pad on the front of the unit and stepped back. As the seal broke around the chamber, shards of ice fell to the floor and braking into a fine powder around the base of the unit. The door slid upwards and the cold air inside evaporated into a delicate mist as the clone body opened his eyes and moved forwards. Instantly, Tavish knew something was wrong. The body lurched forwards and collapsed onto the floor with a sickening thud, followed by convulsions.

“De-fib!” shouted Tavish. Deita rushed towards the alarm button on the wall and slapped it hard setting off a klaxon in the room and rushed back towards Tavish who was now trying to lift the body onto the recovery table behind them. Immediately afterwards, a team of medics dashed into the room from the double doors at the opposite end, some holding medical kit bags while others took hold of several trolleys with medical machinery on them and pushed them to the table.

Tavish and Deita rested Kordan onto the bench and quickly stepped back as the medics swarmed around. Tavish looked at Deita who simply stared back in confusion. Both men quickly returned to the control room to let the medics do their job and began checking and double checking the transfer logs.

“He was alive!” shouted Deita. “What the hell? He was fucking alive!”

“Deita! Check the logs.” He ordered sternly. “Something is wrong here.” Tavish opened the transfer records while Deita checked the backup logs for errors in the transfer stream.

The chief medic entered the room and looked at Tavish. Tavis was about to ask when the medic preempted the question and shook his head before going back into the clone room again.

“Damn it!” Shouted Deita again, the emotion clear in his voice and on his face. “What went wrong?”

“Do we have a backup?” Deita did not answer. Tavish turned around to see him leaning over his console, eyes clenched shut. “Deita.” he reiterated firmly. Deita looked up. His eyes were sad-looking, and red around the sides. Tavish walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ve never…” Deita swallowed hard. “I mean…”

“Look, these things happen. You can’t blame yourself, but I need you to concentrate.” Deita nodded. “Now, was there a backup?” Deita tapped through the menu and found the last transmission file.

“Yes.” He croaked.

“Transfer it to my console.” Deita initiated the transfer. “Got it. Go get a drink or something. Take the rest of the day off.” Deita looked almost like he didn’t want to. “I can make it an order. Don’t worry, I will need to route incoming transmissions away from us to the other wards while I run a full diagnostic anyway. And I will call the evening shift guy to come in if I need help later.”

Deita walked to the door, then stopped as he opened it.

“Would you…”

“I’ll call you as soon as I find out what happened.” Replied Tavish. “First I have to call his next of kin.”

Darius swallowed hard to clear his throat as he listened to the man on the other side of the screen. The man was a Vherokior, in his mid fifties, with greying hair shaved short round the side of his head. When he stopped talking, Darius could say nothing as the tears welled in his eyes. He fought the impulse to break into tears by taking in a deep breath.

“I’m truly sorry Mr Shakor.” Stated the cloning technician.

Darius quietly spoke in a gravelly voice. “How… how did this happen?” He swallowed hard again, trying to maintain his composure.

“We received the clone activation signal from your late brother’s escape pod followed by a data stream containing his brain wave patterns. According to the initial diagnostic run by the system automatically, the stream was complete and we began to transfer the pattern to your brother’s clone. When we took him off life support he was awake, but unresponsive and immediately stopped breathing.” Tears began to flow from Darius’ eyes as he heard the details spoken so plainly. The technician paused for a second and diverted his eyes in sorrow before continuing. “I have personally examined the data stream. To put it as simply as I can, it was scrambled. A series of neural patterns and synaptic instructions jumbled and repeated over and over. The mind did not have the basic instructions needed to sustain the body when he was taken off life support and the medical staff could do nothing to change this.”

The conversation grew silent as Darius struggled to muster the words to respond.

“Again Mr Shakor, we are all deeply sorry for your loss. I can offer no other explanation except to speculate, based on my own experience, that there was a malfunction in the pod firmware that records the synaptic patterns. Some how it only compiled a series of random data and transmitted that. We are making arrangements to have the body sent to a medical facility on Matar. Is there anywhere specific you would like us to arrange for your brother’s body to be taken to?”

Darius was about to speak, but simply transmitted the address of the Hospital on their home island. The same hospital where his father, and mother had died. The same hospital where he and his brother were born. The same hospital where he spent a week recovering from his ordeal in Ammatar space at the hands of his former friend, turned blood enemy.

“Thank you sir.” Tavish did not know how to end such a conversation, he never did. The transmission curtly terminated, leaving Darius alone in his office.

Through a small porthole window, the dark hallways beyond the bright metal door let little sign as to what lay beyond. The room was in near blackness, save for the occasional dim blue and green neon lights emanating from the control panels. Quietly, a solemn figure moved from the shadows in the room for what seemed like the twentieth time, leaning towards the window in the door. His right hand clutched the hilt of a small metal case sealed with a combination lock. His face grew impatient within the shadows as he awaited a signal. As he was about to duck back into the shadows, his eye caught sight of movement. A silhouette in a lab coat stepped from round the corner in the hallway beyond the door and waved him forward. Rapidly, the dark figure made his way through the metal door and trotted down the passageway, quickly engulfed by the darkness. In less than a minute, all trace of the stranger was gone and the hall returned to its eerie quiet.

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2006/06/16/part-1-the-fire-within/feed/0Part 5 – Tideshttp://vandeamon.com/2006/02/04/part-5-tides/
http://vandeamon.com/2006/02/04/part-5-tides/#respondSat, 04 Feb 2006 21:06:44 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=195Read More]]>The darkness almost seemed to rush past him at incredible speed. He felt as if he were falling through a void. He was falling faster with each second, as if more than gravity was propelling him towards the darkness. Dim lights began to encircle the tunnel, moving past as speed as he fell. The lights gave shapes in the darkness, ledges along a tunnel wall. He tried to grab hold of them, stretching to reach. He could feel himself moving towards the edge, but despite this he was no closer to the walls, almost as if they were keeping their distance from him. He could not stop himself. The end of the tunnel came rushing towards him. Stars and swirls of stellar gasses filled his view beyond the tunnel edge, separated only by a sheet of glass at the end of the tunnel. He hit the glass as if it was not there, smashing through the pane as pieces of broken glass cut deep into his flesh. The boiling cold embrace of space tore its fingers through every inch of his body as his veins ruptured. His torn flesh hardened and his eyes swelled in their sockets as he was subjected to violent decompression. The air formed crystals in his lungs as it rushed through into the vacuum of space past his gargled screams.

Darius jumped in his bed, screaming and clutching for the air with his sweaty hands. As sudden as that, reality washed over him bringing him to focus on his surroundings. Realising he was in his room, he settled back down to the bed, his heart pounding hard in his chest accompanying his heavy breathing. It had been a dream, though nightmare seemed a little more of an appropriate description. The thin sheets under him were twisted and soaked with sweat. It was not long before he stopped trying to get comfortable. The room was back on Matar, on the second floor of the Shakor clan’s hall. It was early morning, and the sun had yet to rise over the nearby ocean edge that surrounded the Island in all directions. But the sky was already turning slightly blue, projecting a dim light through the partially closed blinds. The window was open yet the air was still, and warm. The humidity clamored to his skin saturating it and adding to his discomfort, as well as more troubled nights and lost sleep.

Darius got up and made his way to the bathroom, not bothering to turn the lights on. He staggered in the darkness, more from the swimming headache he was suffering from than from the gloomy conditions. He reached the adjoining bathroom and ran the tap for the cold water. He cupped his hands under the stream that poured from the tap and splashed the water over his face. Despite the fact that it was the cold tap he had run, the water was lukewarm. It always was.

He had been home now for nearly a month. Since his ordeal in Ammatar space, he had decided to return to his home island on Matar to recover. But not before he had explained what he had seen to the resistance cell, then told them he would not be working for them anymore. The reason for that was simple; the only person he ever trusted in that organization was Ramar, and he had betrayed him. The leader of the resistance had not believed him at first and even suspected that Darius was the one who had been working with the Ammatar. But when Ramar failed to report back to them, they too came to suspect the same. It was obvious that he was taking ‘accommodation’ in Ammatar space now, never to return. He was now dubbed a traitor and to be killed on sight by the resistance. Though Darius was not working for them anymore, he also had his own policy along those lines. While in captivity, he had declared a blood vendetta on Ramar, one that had yet to be fulfilled. The only pain Darius felt about this was that his family had quickly found out and were devastated by the news.

Damn him. Thought Darius as he stared hard into his own dark reflection. Damn you too…

His eyes were heavy, and dark around the edges. He had not slept well since he returned home, and he had not been back into space since. His injuries were mostly healed too, though his ribs were still a little tender. Tourvel’s attacks had not only hurt his ribs, he had broken two of them. His nose was also broken when the Ammatar SS guard kicked him in the face while he was tied up, and his muscles in his left shoulder had torn when he broke free of his bindings. While his cuts had healed somewhat, the internal injuries were still taking their toll. He would most likely not be in space for at least another month. Staring into his own eyes in the mirror, he realized that the prospect should have depressed him deeply. But it did not. In fact, he was contemplating to never return to space, to sell his ships, and live here on Matar. As he contemplated this, he turned the bathroom light on and ran a cold shower, stepping in to cool off. As he let the clean water strip the sweat from his body, he realized something else he had not done since he got back. He had not smiled. He had not felt the need to.

Nearly one week later. Darius was still at his old clan hall. He could stay there as long as he wanted. The clan was run by his uncle, Gol’dar Shakor, and had been so as long as Darius could remember. Gol’dar Shakor was 147 years old and had ruled the clan since the Amarr were driven out. Gol’dar answered the cry of rebellion and was personally responsible for killing the Amarr holder who claimed the Shakor’s home island as his domain on Matar, thus liberating the Shakor’s ancestral home. It was the son of this Holder who would eventually enslave his last Shakor, Darius’ father. History repeated itself once more as his own father killed the new Holder with his own two hands. Gol’dar was indeed revered in the clan, though he carried this in a humble manner.

It was a bright day outside the walls of the clan hall, yet he had not seen it. He had not been outside now for many days; he had not even opened the blinds to his room. The only telltale signs that it was daytime were the bright light around the edges of the blind that failed to illuminate the room more than a half a foot from the wall, and the numbers that his clock displayed. He had not shaved for nearly a week and was beginning to grow a serious beard. The door to his room opened; Darius simply slumped in his chair in the dark corner of his room to the side. He did not acknowledge the newcomer except to take a deep breath and roll his eyes slightly.

Here it comes again, he thought bitterly. More pity, more fussing, more concern.

Recently, Darius became aware that ever since he returned, he has been treated as an object of pity. He didn’t want pity, he wanted answers. The problem was, he didn’t even want to ask the questions.

“Kind of dark in here isn’t it?” spoke a familiar voice. Darius didn’t look up, he simply shrugged. “You haven’t been down for dinner in a couple of days now bro. We’re worried about you.” Darius angled his head slightly to the side to look upon the figure. It was his younger half-brother, Kordan. He was carefully picking his way into the room in the dark, eventually leaning over to pick up an empty bottle. Kordan examined it before placing it firmly on the desktop to his side, right next to several others. “I see…” he said slowly as he raised an eyebrow to his brother.

“Don’t give me that look.” Shot Darius. “It’s not like that.”

“I didn’t say a word, Darius.” Retorted Kordan with a coy, boyish grin on his face. “What can it not be like if I haven’t said anything?” Darius shook his head and frowned, then carefully lifted himself out of the seat. His head swam with the sudden momentum. Despite that, he quickly fought to gain balance and stared at Kordan.

“Stop goading me!” He growled deeply. “You know something…?” he stopped short when he saw Kordan smirk a little and hold up his hand.

“At least I got you out of that seat finally. I was beginning to think that chair had grown out of your back and taken root into the floor.” He laughed.

“You can be a real immature ass hole Kordan!” shot Darius as he jabbed a finger into Kordan’s chest. Kordan stopped smiling as a more serious look came over him as he stared into Darius’ weary eyes. Darius simply turned his back and slowly walked to the bed. “Now leave me alone, I’m tired.” Not bothering to pull the sheets up, Darius simply rolled onto the bed and lay on his side. Kordan looked on, frowning at his older brother. He was angry, but not at what he had just said to him. He was angry at what Darius was doing to himself. He could not just say nothing or dance around the issue anymore. His brother was destroying himself… for no reason.

“So what, you’re older than me by about 13 years. Big deal!” He shouted loudly. “I may act immature at times, but at least I am aware of it and can stop it when I have to! And at least I am not turning into a broken down drunk! So Ramar betrayed you, so he broke your life-long friendship. So what!? Get over it Darius. Drinking yourself into a pit isn’t going to change anything. And despite what you might think about yourself, your family still cares about what happens to you. I would hope to Matar that you care for us too. What would you do if it were me laying there?” Darius did not move. Kordan stood there for a few seconds before giving up on a reaction and left the room.

Gol’dar Shakor grimaced in the faint candlelight, the sole illumination in the room, as he sat cross-legged facing the open balcony door. The world outside was dark, though the sky was bright with stars and a full moon dominated the crest of the hill overlooking the bay. The view was indeed beautiful; his ancestors could not have picked a better spot for the clan hall many millennia ago. Though this clan hall was relatively new, despite being several hundred years old, it was not the first of such halls to grace the hillside overlooking the waters surrounding the island. And each hall, though gradually increasing in size each time they are rebuilt, would be graced with the same architecture as the last and built from traditional materials and tools. It was a feeling that gave Gol’dar such pride in his people, not just the Shakor, but the Minmatar all over the galaxy.

Tonight, however, he could take little comfort from this as young Kordan nervously relayed his latest debacle with his older brother to him. Gol’dar did not look towards Kordan, who was standing somewhere behind him, but Kordan could tell from the low growl that Gol’dar was not happy. For more reasons that Kordan could realize, or be made aware of at this moment in time.

“I will speak with him.” Spoke Gol’dar solemnly before raising his hand in thanks, not even looking around at him. Kordan took this as a signal that the conversation was over and he quietly exits the room.

The door behind Gol’dar shut with a gentle thud, and the room descended into dark silence. Gol’dar grunted in discomfort as he lifted himself off the floor and headed towards a small dark wood tray on the floor with two ceremonial candles on them and gently lifted it onto a short stool overlooking the open balcony door. Gol’dar then stretched his back as he stood up and walked to the light switch, turning the lights off. The room was entirely pitch black, save for the light of the moon in the clear sky reflecting off the water beyond. Despite this, Gol’dar smiled to himself as he was able to pick his way through the room with his old eyes, still able to see as clear as day. He settled down on the floor, his aged bones straining in protest as he attempted to cross his legs. He picked up a small object made of polished bone with a metal protrusion and depressed it over the first candle as he closed his eyes and hummed in a low gravely tone. The lighter like device sparked to life and a small flicker of flame emerged from the metal tubing on the end. The faint sound of the tallow crackling in the heat of the flame was all the indication Gol’dar needed to know the flame had engulfed the wick. Gol’dar moved the lighter to the second candle as he changed the tone of the hum lower as the second wick hissed to light.

Gol’dar allowed time each night to practice an ancient evocation ritual. Not unlike meditation, the practice centered on conjuring the images of the past into the conscious mind. As he began, his mind was a wash of feelings, thoughts and images. Disorderly and chaotic, the images washed over his mind like waves crashing on the rocks of the cliff below the tribal hall. Drawing on over a century of practice, he found the discipline to quieten these waves of images as if he were calming the very ocean. One by one, he cleared his mind of random thoughts until he reached the root of his consciousness. Now alone in the darkness, he channeled an intangible energy as if he were lighting a beacon in his mind. A beacon that stretched further than the reaches of this world, summoning something that was as timeless as history itself. The darkness slowly filled with a mist as a sense of presence engulfed him. More a single entity, though shaped by the experiences of the many, the feeling was like seeing history. Only the most experienced in the practice have the ability to summon this ability, even then very few can command it. For all his years, he himself had only been able to fully control the images he sees for 30 years. His thoughts came into play once more as he began to think about his parents.

He had never seen them in flesh, only a faded picture of them both taken from their registration files, documents kept by the Amarr masters of old. They had smuggled him off Matar as an infant, before he was subjected to the horrors of slavery and the oppression of the neuro-toxin used by the Amarr. Over 20 years later, his younger brother was born and they again managed to smuggle him out. The Amarr holder responsible for the keeping of the island chain found out about this and his security forces arrested them a few days later.

Gol’dar lingered on that moment in time, picturing the torture they must have gone through behind closed doors. His anger boiled inside him as he struggled to control his heartbeat and breathing. Rage boiled inside him as his thoughts drew closer to the end. Try as hard as he might, he could not picture their death. He never could. The records found indicate they were burned alive, locked in a small furnace-like room, stripped bare and shaved of all hair. Gol’dar clenched his fist and tensed every muscle in his body. The sudden blood rush caused him to experience spasms in his shoulders and back causing intense pain to course through his body like electricity. Despite this, the old man remained in position as firm as stone. He forced himself to calm, breathing. As he regained his composure, he forced himself to gently drift further ahead in time.

Word had reached the surface that entire fleets of ships, built in secret by the Minmatar, had breached the Amarr armada lines above in space and were heading towards the surface to liberate them. The guards had all but abandoned the compound as they marched to quell the uprising. As their ships landed on the island, Gol’dar, followed by hundreds of angry Minmatar warriors of the rebellion aided in the defeat of these soldiers. A rioting hoard of freed slaves destroyed anything that bore the symbol of Amarr or the crest of the house that claimed these islands as their own. Bodies of the slave masters and their foot soldiers were strung up in the courtyard, some still alive at the time. Gol’dar, as if he were being pulled by destiny, headed alone towards the Clan Hall on the hill. His ancestral home converted into a personal palace for a greedy Amarr slave holder. The holder was being escorted to an evacuation point by a pair of bodyguards. A small Amarr shuttle descended over the island to rescue their lord, only to be hit by missile fire from several light fighters before crashing into the sea. Gol’dar could recall the feeling, a glorious wave of triumph, wash over him once more as the free slaves of the Amarr, his brethren, let out a united and deafening cry of “FREEDOM!” echo through the valley below as he dragged the dead body of the holder out of his ancestral home, killed by his own bare hands.

Gol’dar’s concentration broke once more as he sensed something was not quite right. His eyes twitched and suddenly he threw his hands to his head in pain. He grimaced from the sharp sting that arced from the back of his eyes towards the base of his skull. As quickly as the pain had come, it faded again, leaving Gol’dar breathing heavy in relief. Gol’dar had lost the images, the mist, the ancient presence. He stared down at the candle light as both flames danced back and forth in the darkness. It seemed that he had less time than he thought.

Darius lay in a mild delirium, kept so by a sickening concoction of alcohol. The evidence of which was clear to Gol’dar has he entered the room to be greeted by the sight of bottles on the floor that almost formed a halo around the bed. Gol’dar felt a pain that burrowed deeper than that which he felt in his meditation as he witnessed the scene. This boy, now a man, had been more than his nephew. He had been as close to him as the son he never had. At the side of his brother’s deathbed, he had sworn to him he would protect Darius and care for him. Gol’dar carefully picked his way through the rubbish strewn on the floor towards the ever drawn shades. Like the only man alive that dare, he pulled the chord sharply opening them, flooding the room with a sudden bright light.

“Hey!” came a drowsy protest from the bed. “I’m trying to sleep.” Darius rolled over to escape the intensely bright light coming through the open window.

“Get up Darius!” demanded Gol’dar. There was no answer. With a low growl, Gol’dar stepped up to the bed and grabbed a handful of Darius’ dirty clothing and, with surprising strength, dragged Darius off the bed and onto the floor. Darius creased with pain as he landed with a hard thud on the wood floor. Towering above him, he forced himself to lock eyes with Gol’dar. Despite the alcohol, Gol’dar could clearly see there was fire there. Good. He wanted to clear his head.

Darius tried to scramble to his feet, clutching the fabric of the bed as he attempted to hoist himself off the floor.

“What would your father think of what you have become?” snarled Gol’dar. Darius froze for a second, having only made it to one knee.

“I don’t care” he responded quietly.

“That’s all you ever cared about Darius!” retorted Gol’dar. “All you ever wanted to be was like your father. And like it or not, you are more like him than you know.” Darius did not look up as he rested against the side of his bed. “The only difference is that he didn’t wallow in self-pity and alcohol when he came back from Amarr.”

“He… he killed the holder though. He got his revenge.”

“Revenge? Is that what you seek? Is that what you think it meant to him? Your father did not kill his keeper out of revenge. He did it because it was what needed doing.”

“But you..”

“I did the same thing for the same reason. I don’t deny that hate resides in me for what happened to my parents and for what the Amarr have done to us. But I don’t let it drive me. And I certainly don’t hate myself, and neither did your father.” Darius lowered his eyes as he continued to lift himself off the floor and sat on the bed.

Gol’dar looked on at his nephew as he held his head in his hands.

“Darius, I’m dying.” Darius looked up wide eyed. He opened his mouth, but could not even muster the words.

“It’s a rare neurological virus. It’s attacking my nervous system. The doctors can’t estimate the scale of the infection or how long I have to live.”

“I…”

“I will be brief. For many years now I have had it in mind to hand the clan over to you.” Again, Darius fell silent, slowly diverting his eyes towards the floor. “Besides the doctors and the clan elders, no one else knows about this. Not even your brother.” Gol’dar waited for a moment before heading towards the door, leaving Darius sitting on the edge of his bed. He knew he had nothing more to say. The look on Darius’ face said it all, that he well understood and that all he had said was taking root. Now it was just a case of waiting. It may well be a wait that Gol’dar could not afford.

Epilogue

Darius stood in silent vigil over his Uncle’s form. The room was dark, it was late at night. The funeral was scheduled for the next morning. His uncle Gol’dar had passed away the day before after suffering a major seizure brought on by the virus that had gripped him. As per the clan tradition, the future clan leader fulfilled the duty of honor guard to his predecessor the night before the funeral. It was meant to be a night of perspective, of reflection and self-discovery. In this night, he and his Uncle were to become as one mind. And their collective spirits would determine the next reign of the clan, tempered by the embers of the old. This required an entire night of meditation. It had been many months since Darius had meditated on any matter, and now he was not even sure he could reach such a state. In most cases, the new clan leaders were more aged than he was.

The room’s still silence was gently rattled by the quiet sound of the door opening. A dim light emanated from the opening, barely bringing any ambiance to the hallowed chamber. Darius was joined by his brother who slipped into place beside him. Neither man looked at each other in acknowledgment. Kordan broke the silence as he whispered to his brother.

“I thought you could use some company.”

Darius opened his mouth to reply, but simply found himself letting out a shallow breath. Instead, he simply bowed his head. Deep down, he wanted to stand the vigil alone. But he did not want Kordan to leave either. He earned as much right to stand the vigil for the night, even more so than Darius. Finding the strength to speak, Darius whispered a simple thanks back to his brother.

“I am here for you brother. You more than anyone needs someone to watch over you than another person to watch over Uncle Gol’dar.” With a deep breath, Darius stepped towards the low altar at the base of Gol’dar’s resting place and knelt. Darius lit a solitary candle in the middle and lifted it off the base, dipping the flame into a stone pot filled with herbs. A cloud of white smoke quickly escaped from the pot, followed by a steadier stream as it began to evaporate and a delicate scent filled the room.

In the shadows behind him, Kordan simply stood over his brother and watched as he placed the candle back into its placeholder. Darius closed his eyes and, for the first time in months, began his mantra, slowly descending into a trance. One last communion with Gol’dar Shakor, before the future of the clan, and a new era itself rested on his shoulders.

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2006/02/04/part-5-tides/feed/0Part 4 – Betrayalhttp://vandeamon.com/2005/08/07/part-4-betrayal/
http://vandeamon.com/2005/08/07/part-4-betrayal/#respondSun, 07 Aug 2005 09:16:11 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=194Read More]]>The world was pain. Swirling all around his head, dim lights danced in his vision giving him the sense that he was tumbling through blackness. He tried to move, but his body would not respond. His body was not there, just a hollow shell of light, trapping his mind. Every time he tried to move beyond it, sharp rods would cut and rip at his fragile consciousness. He pushed until he could bare the pain no longer. Suddenly, as he was about to give up, the prison of darkness broke away under intense white light that flooded his senses. His body grew from nothing quickly as if reanimated by the light.

The light began to fade as Darius’ vision grew used to the stinging light. His skin felt like it was burning. Shapes began to form in front of him as his eye lids flickered, blinking away the haze, and formed the shape of a human. Then another. Trapped by pain, his body unable to move, Darius tried to shout for help. All that came from his mouth was dry air, he was unable to speak. Where was he? What had happened to him? He could not remember where he was, or why he was in pain. Unable to get up, or even move his head, his view was limited to where his body was pointed. Quickly he realized he was lying on his side on a hard cold floor. From what he could see, he was in a small room with several steel crates and barrels stacked against the opposite wall. There were two men in the room with him, both with their back to him. There was also a steel door at the far end of the wall to his right.

A small amount of feeling returned, and he was able to move his head slightly. His ears, though ringing at first, could make out quiet voices of the men in the room as they talked. The words were hard to make out in the conversation. Either they were speaking in their own tongue or he could not hear well enough yet. He focused harder and tried to move his arms. They were behind his back, and though he had some movement in them, his wrists felt stuck together. He was tied up. As he tried to gather more strength to struggle against his bonds, he made an involuntary grunt. One of the guards turned around and noticed he was awake.

“So you’re back in the land of the living then?” he asked. Darius was not too sure what was going on still, and his memory was still fuzzy. The guard sneered at him before turning back around. “Minmatar scum!” The guard quickly spun around again and punctuated the remark with a swift kick to his face. Darius’ vision flashed red with pain as he blacked out again.

Voices echoed in Darius’ mind, off in the distance. Laughter, anger, frantic voices danced back and forth, pulling Darius back to reality. His face was sore as he began to open his eyes. He tasted blood in the back of his throat. Other than that, he felt better than before. His skin still burned, though his limbs didn’t feel as numb as they had. He moved his head around to the direction of the voices that became less of a distant echo with each second that passed.

“Did you have to kick him in the face?” Said one familiar, gravelly voice.

“Why not sir?” That voice he knew. It was the man who had kicked him. “He’s going to get a lot worse in the future you know.” He tried to focus his eyes on the group in the room. It was a little larger now. There were five people in the room with him. He could make out the faces of the men. But only one he recognized. He had seen the man before.

“Don’t lecture me, boy!” Shouted the same man. He was obviously an authority over these men, who now shriveled under the admonishment they were getting. “The man said not to harm him, or the deal is off. And that is what will happen, do I make myself clear soldier?!”

“Yes, Major Tourval.” Tourval? Darius remembered that name. And he remembered he had to meet this man. What had happened then? Why was he tied up? The door to the room creaked opened and another man walked in. A thin, gangly man in a station uniform.

He was familiar too. The port master. Darius began to remember more now. He was shot by this man with some kind of energy weapon because… Ah. These men were Ammatar impostors, and they were all set to attack the Minmatar resistance he worked for. The port master walked over to Tourvel and spoke.

“Sir, he’s here.” The port master seemed different. He carried himself more confidently than he remembered and spoke more clearly with a precise edge to his voice, almost military like. How could he be so dumb as to fall for the innocent approach? All the while he had some form of stun weapon under his robes. Darius remembered it clearly now. He had overheard them talking about some data chips, hidden in his cargo, that contained details of a Minmatar resistance attack into this space that was being planned. Somehow, he needed to get out of here and warn Ramar. He could not help but wonder how those plans ended up in his cargo. Maybe someone at his home station was an Ammatar sympathizer? Or maybe someone in the resistance?

Darius’ head rolled back to face the floor as the door opened again. Both guards dismissed themselves leaving the port master, Tourvel and his two bodyguards in the room. They were greeted by another man who entered.

“Shit!” Proclaimed the newcomer, storming into the room. “What the hell happened!” That voice… surely not. Darius looked up again to see the man. Darius’ blood ran cold when he saw who the newcomer was. Ramar!

“Shut up! This is my friend, understand? All I wanted was for him to do this job none the wiser and you guys screwed it up completely.”

“Yes, sir.” Was all Tourvel could say. Darius was confused. What was Ramar doing here? This had to be a mistake. “We cannot let him go though, knowing what he knows now.”

“I know, but he won’t be killed. I forbid it. Otherwise, you can kiss all the intel I have been feeding you goodbye from now on.”

“Understood. I figured as much that you would want him to live. But he must disappear. I have already taken the liberty of contacting a friend in the slave trade. He will see to it that he does not get in our way again.”

“I don’t want him beaten half to death either.”

“His methods are humane. He will be looked after, I guarantee it.”

“You had better.” Darius strained against the pain and began to sit up. Ramar looked at him, eyes filled with sorrow. “This wasn’t meant to happen, Darius. You should have just made this one run, then it would have been over when the real resistance cell tries to move in next week. They would have been destroyed quickly and the true rulers of Matar would have dealt a crippling blow to what has been a thorn in their side. And all the while, you would have been unaffected.”

“True rulers?” Darius croaked.

“Yes, Dar. You must understand, as I have come to. The Ammatar, and the Amarr, are superior to the Minmatar. Our people have been adrift ever since the rebellion and each day, more and more strife is witnessed in our borders. And this is only made worse by the so so-called freedom fighters’ and their dirty war against God.”

“You bastard!” Ramar only looked at Darius, still in obvious sorrow for what had happened. Ramar nodded to Tourvel and the others left the room.

“We could have still remained friends.” Continued Ramar as he took a seat next to Darius, still on the floor, but half propped up against the wall behind. “I still consider you a friend Darius. I am sorry it had to go this way, but I never intended for you to get this involved. If anything I gave you this assignment because it was of the utmost importance that the cargo be delivered with no problems. You were the only person I trusted. After this you would have gone back to your original assignments as normal.”

Darius could not reply. He was burning with rage, Every muscle in his body was tense as he wanted to reach out and crush the life from Ramar’s throat with his bare hands. He had been betrayed.

“How long?” said Darius, still croaky.

“I have always known, as all Minmatar do deep down.”

“You speak just like an Amarrian. That was not what I asked.”

“If you must know, I came to my senses while we were in the tech school. I had a debate with some guy in the military school one night. He was blood thirsty. Belligerent. I had never spoken to anyone like him. Like me, he was going to join a terrorist organisation…”

“Freedom fighters!” Retorted Darius in defence.

“Lets not debate that point, that depends on your perspective. This man wanted to join an organisation that had a sole purpose to kill all Amarr and Ammatar. I only wanted to bring an end to slavery. But it got me thinking you see. I began to wonder if people like him deserved to be enslaved. He was ignorant of the facts as all Minmatar are. The Amarr enslaved us because of this reason. Clearly we have not changed for the most part. Many of our people do not deserve freedom yet, we just abuse it as that man does. These people are Ammatar Secret Services. I have been working with them for three years.”

“So you rationalised betrayal? Good for you.” Said Darius sarcastically. Ramar looked at him for a few seconds. His eyes were clear and unperturbed. Darius’ eyes were burning with hatred.

Ramar stood to leave. “I don’t know what is going to happen next. Only that a slaver will be coming to take you to Amarr space. I am sorry about this. I wanted you to join me eventually. I thought you might be intelligent enough to understand what I do. But I guess that will not happen now. You don’t deserve to be enslaved, but it must be done. You are too much of a threat to us to be allowed to go free.” Darius straightened against the wall as his strength slowly continued to return to him. The two guards made their way back into the room as he opened the door to leave.

“I will kill you for this Ramar, from this day forth, we are blood enemies.” Darius punctuated his remark by spitting his own bloody saliva on the floor in front of him.

“Goodbye Darius. I shall pray for you.” Ramar closed the door behind, leaving the two guards with Darius once more.

Time passed by slowly, and quietly. The guards were sat over by the door, using one of the boxes for a table and small barrels for makeshift chairs. Darius slowly felt his strength coming back, fuelled by anger and a searing desire to kill the man that had left him, and his people, to rot. In his shuffling to get comfy on the hard floor, he felt something behind him scratch his hand. There was an old pipe running along the bottom of the wall where he sits. A part of it must be broken. He struggled to see behind him and as he did, he saw part of a broken clamp that holds the pipe to the wall. The edge had rusted away and become jagged. Maybe he could cut the rope with it? It was worth a try. Who knows how long he had before the slaver got here. Careful not to disturb the guards, he began to rub the thick rope against the jagged edge in an attempt to weaken the bonds.

After what seemed like forever, the rope began to feel looser around his wrists. But it was too late. The door opened once more, and an Amarrian entered the room with an Ammatar man in tow. Both guards quickly stood to attention and the Amarrian waved them out of the room. Obviously he was a holder of some sort. The Ammatar didn’t look as well kept. Most likely he was the slaver Ramar and Tourvel had spoken about.

“He seems in better condition than I had thought, for a terrorist that is.” Said the Ammatar. The holder said nothing and simply stepped closer to examine Darius. He had heard the storied of former slaves who would recount the times they were trotted out in front of wealthy Amarrian and Ammatar buyers and business men so they could be judged for purchase. Each one examined as if the holder was buying fruit at a market stall and was looking for a ripe pick. The very though disgusted Darius to his bones to think that he was being judged like some damned piece of food.

“He looks aggressive Krane.” Replied the holder.

‘Krane? Ah yes the fake name on the station records he signed. He must be a regular then.’ though Darius.

“He might be difficult to tame, I admit. But what slave isn’t?” Replied the Ammatar as he set his case on the crates. He opened it and removed a hypodermic needle gun, and a tube of clear silvery liquid. “But with the right persuasion, he will succumb as they all do.” The vial must contain the neural poison they inject into slaves. The same they had injected into his father when he was captured several decades ago. Damn them for it. He would not allow this.

“That’s fine,” continued the holder, “I want him a little aggressive, as long as he is obedient. He will make a fine training instrument at the academy to teach our young recruits how to fight in hand to hand. As long as he is obedient, it matters not.”

“That won’t be a problem sir.” While they were talking, Darius was still attempting to loosen the ropes behind him. His hands were still tangled in the ropes and it would take more strength than he possessed in his current state to break free.

“Very well, proceed then deliver him to my slave preparation centre once he is ready.” The Ammatar bowed to the holder who swiftly left the room.

“Stand up.” He demanded to Darius, who was still on the ground. Darius hesitated a little. If he stood, he would be out of reach of the jagged brace and unable to free himself. He didn’t know if he could break the ropes with his own strength. “If you do not stand, the poison will not spread quickly through your system.”

“And I’m sure we wouldn’t want that now would we?” replied Darius sarcastically, still frantically grating the rope against the jagged edge.

“Actually you wouldn’t, slave.” Slave! That burned Darius down to his soul to be called a slave. “If the poison does not spread evenly right away, then you would suffer from violent nausea, fever and possibly even death. But not before you choke on your own vomit. I have instructions to ensure that no harm comes to you. Now stand!”

Reluctant, Darius stood up. As he did, he noticed something on top of the boxes near the door he had not seen while down on the floor. His gun and knife. He strained against the ropes with all his might as Krane, the slaver, approached with the needle.

With a cry of pain and anger, Darius broke free of the ropes. The Ammatar recoiled for a second in surprise, and then lunged at Darius to try and subdue him. Darius quickly grabbed Krane’s wrist with the needle gun in it, twisted, and broke his arm. Krane screamed in pain as Darius bent his arm up, and stabbed the needle through Krane’s neck. The gun hissed as the poison rushed into his system. Darius grabbed Krane by his hair and smashed his fist into his face, breaking his nose and knocking him out. Krane landed in a heap on the floor, needle still in his neck, as Darius stepped over his body and made for his gun. Darius picked it up and checked it was still loaded, and not a moment too soon as the door to his right creaked, and the security guard came in to the room.

“You done yet Krane…” The guard went pale as he realised he was staring into the eyes of their captor, gun levelled at his chest, and Krane lying in a pool of blood on the floor behind. “SHIT!” The guard took a step back and started to step to the side behind the door frame while reaching for his stun rod when Darius fired a shell of ball bearings at him. The effect of this gun up close was not a pretty sight, as the guard flew backwards and crashed against the wall. Stray clusters of bearings smashed lumps out of the door frame and the wall behind the guard as his friend came rushing through the door, thrusting the stun stick in his direction. Darius, running on pure adrenalin, quickly side stepped the stick, grabbed the Ammatar’s arm and dragged him forwards, driving a knee into his gut. As the wind sharply escaped his lungs, he lost his grip on the stun stick dropping it on the floor as Darius delivered an elbow to the back of the man’s head, sending him to the floor. Suddenly the man’s body flashed with blue energy as he landed on his own charged stun stick, sending him into violent convulsions. Darius jumped away and towards the door, leaving the poor guard to fry.

The outside hallway led only to his left as he exited the room. The hallway was dotted with rooms either side, most likely either offices or storerooms not unlike the one that he had just escaped. As Darius made his way to the end of the hallway, it branched in two. The sign on the wall was written in Amarrian, and Darius could not entirely understand it. There were also universal symbols under the words that denoted he was in hangar section 6, the same that his ship was docked, and the dock itself was to the left. The Hallway to the right led towards hanger section 5 and was as much identical to this section. As Darius made his way to the door that leads to his hangar, a hiss from down the hall caught his attention. Dropping low, he spun the gun around, a figure at the end of the hall mirrored his movements with equal grace. Staring down the barrel of his gun, Darius glared deeply at his prey, Ramar. His soul ignited in rage; he wanted this man dead. Suddenly, and without warning, a figure rushed out of the side hall from the direction of his former prison. Darius wildly flung the gun around and, without quarter, fired a shell. The shot swung wide and tore chunks out of the wall behind the figure that was moving at incredible speed, slamming Darius against the wall behind. Through the chaos, Darius could see Ramar dash through the hangar door at the other side of the hallway as another blur swung towards Darius’ head. Darius raised his left arm up to protect his head as the blow struck home, knocking Darius off balance. Another blur came up from the floor but before he could react, a knee struck him in the gut. His grip on the gun weakened and his fell from his hand, clattering on the hard stone floor as another blow landed on Darius’ head, sending him to the floor in a dizzy tumble.

“You should have just stayed down and accepted defeat.” The voice was familiar and chilled Darius to his bones. Darius was slightly dazed and could not focus his concentration on anything but the voice, not noticing when he was dragged to his feet quickly as his vision faded to darkness from the sudden rush of blood to his head. Darius was running on instinct as he side-stepped another blow that struck thin air, and followed up with his own attack swiftly cutting down the assailant giving him chance to gain breath. He forced himself to focus on the figure dressed in a black and olive combat uniform as he regained his balance. The man turned around and Darius stared into the cold steel eyes of Tourvel. As quickly as that he lost sight of him again as he rushed Darius at lightning speed. Brutors were not known for their agility over their strength and Tourvel was clearly a professionally trained combatant. Darius managed to block the first punch, however the next two got through, again sending Darius reeling. He was indeed deceptively strong for his build. Darius gained his balance and thrust a kick upwards, only to be caught by Tourvel, twisted and thrown to the ground face first.

Tourvel lingered over Darius for several seconds to revel in the moment.

“I always wanted to pay you back for putting a gun to my head back on that filthy station, Darius.” Sneered Tourvel as Darius tried to get back up. “Do you think that you could actually beat a real soldier?” Tourvel stomped hard on Darius’ back, forcing him down on his face. “For that matter, do you really think that your pitiful rebel army stands a chance against a real army?” Tourvel kicked Darius again, hard in the ribs. Darius coughed up blood on the floor as his wind was forced from his lungs. “You could have lived as a slave, but now you shall simply die as a criminal.” Tourvel grabbed Darius with both hands to force him to his feet again, but Darius quickly rolled over on his back. He trapped both of Tourvel’s arms behind him with one hand, and withdrew his knife from under his coat with the other, driving it deep into Tourvel’s side. Tourvel was too stunned to scream in agony and his face simply creased in pain as Darius released his arms and kicked Tourvel’s weight off his knife. Tourvel stumbled back and fell against the wall, sliding down to the floor as Darius regained his footing and picked up his gun off the floor. Nursing his ribs, several of them most likely broken, Darius raised his gun as he and Tourvel locked eyes for the last time.

“You people talk too much Tourvel” stated Darius plainly before pulling the trigger, the sound of the shot echoing through the halls.

Ramar was long gone by now no doubt. His ship must have been docked in the next hangar and if so he is most likely no longer in this system. The sound of a klaxon reverberated through the station as Darius heard voices coming from down the hallway. Some more guards must have found the others back at the store room and called an alert. Darius quickly pressed the pad to open the door to his hangar, preying that his ship was still there. Sure enough, it was and Darius quickly boarded, locking the door behind him. Securing himself into his pod, Darius quickly powered up the systems and weapons of the ship. He feared that he might have to shoot his way out of the station perimeter as navy ships could well be circling the station any minute now. Darius activated the undocking protocols to release his ship from the gravity well when he got an error. He tried again, getting the error again. The ship must have been secured by station security with locked docking clamps, most likely after he was captured he presumed. He deployed the camera drone and moved it into position to survey the situation. Sure enough several clamps had been attached to the ship, anchoring it to the station.

Thinking quickly, he activated the weapons systems and selected the 425mm auto-cannon on that side of the ship, targeting the brace holding the clamp in place. Double checking the diagnostics to make sure the weapons had not been deactivated, the results came back green and quickly, Darius activated the cannon. A powerful burst of automatic cannon fire ripped through the docking bay with thunderous noise as titanium shells began to slice through the brace with each burst. Pieces of the hangar walls flew in all directions as stray shells struck the walls. On the corner of the view from his camera drone, several troops began to form on the gantry, firing man portable energy weapons at his Stabber. Pieces of his armour began to fail and Darius attempted to raise the shields, only to realise that this was not possible in stations due to built in fail-safes. Normally doing such a thing could cause damage to the station interior as the shield bubble would collide with the structure. As he panned the camera around to view them better, another troop entered the hangar with a portable rocket launcher strapped to his back and frantically began to assemble it. Without his shields he would suffer serious damage. Yet another reason why he was quickly beginning to hate station drop-offs.

Darius activated the forward gun turret under the cockpit area, the other 425mm auto-cannon, and aimed at the walkway where they were deployed. Quickly several of them dashed through the door into the cargo bay area as almost immediately the auto-cannon unleashed a deafening thunderous volley of titanium shells that chewed up the concrete gantry, sending up a cloud of dust and debris in their wake before the guns summarily jammed. At almost the same time, the first auto-cannon chewed through what was left of the last docking clamp, releasing his ship sending it lurching to the right before it stabilised. A flash of light in the dust cloud caught Darius’ attention as a short range rocket suddenly streaked out of the cloud towards his ship. Darius watched the rocket tear through the air on a tongue of ionised gas towards his ship as if it were in slow motion. At the last second, the rocket veered slightly upwards and narrowly scraped past his camera drone, hovering mere meters above his ship, as the small missile struck the wall on the other side of the station showering his ship with chunks of debris. Focusing his view on the dust cloud that was starting to clear, Darius saw that the rocket launcher trooper had survived the auto-cannon fire somehow and managed to fire a rocket blindly through the dust. Lucky his ship had moved since then or it would have struck the narrow support between the engine section and the bridge of his ship. He was already reloading another rocket. It was definitely time to leave.

Darius quickly turned the ship towards the closed airlock hatch. No doubt it too was locked by now. Having caused this much damage already what difference is a little more? Darius loaded his launchers with heavy missiles and, without bothering to lock a target, fired blindly at the hatch. The missiles struck the doors, blowing a large hole in them and decompressing the entire hangar section. The sudden pressure change sent his ship lunging forward towards the fiery explosion that quickly cleared to reveal a large hole in the door. A secondary emergency airlock was already starting to close around the hole in a bid to save the station from the decompression. Darius engaged his primary thrusters and quickly flew through the hole before the doors closed around it. The docking tunnel leading outside was rather lengthy but Darius could see that the outside doors were also closed. With equal contempt as the last, Darius launched two more missiles at the tunnel exit. The explosion ripped the doors clear off the side of the station, the fire quickly evaporating into the vacuum of space. Darius began to move the ship forwards quickly formulating his next move once out of the station. He expected that the stations guns would swiftly open fire as soon as he clears the docking ring. He would not have long to align for warp. However, before he could reach the exit, he caught sight of two, then three golden coloured ships moving into a firing position in front of the airlock exit.

“I can’t get clear in time to warp.” He mused to himself. “I would be cut down quickly.” Darius stopped the ship for a second short of the exit while he thought of a plan. Then he remembered warp physics debates in the tech school where they discussed ways of sending a ship into warp without entering a co-ordinate into the navigation computer. It was theoretical but could be done. His ship would simply warp in a straight line past the blockade. Though it had to be short otherwise his warp drive could fuse and he would be stranded here. Darius quickly set to work as the Ammatar security ships became impatient and began firing lasers towards the tunnel, striking the sides of the docking port and slicing off chunks of metal.

As Darius engaged his warp engine, the ship began to quickly move towards the edge of the port, striking pieces of floating debris in his path each accompanied by a hollow clunk. The lasers were becoming more focused now and began to tear into the armour sending warning messages flashing before his eyes as vital systems started to take damage. Then, with a violent and resounding shudder, the ship was thrust forward and cleared the docking ring taking forever in a split second to pass the blockading ships, whose lasers were still striking the docking tunnel behind him. A warp corridor wrapped around the ship as he was propelled faster with several chunks of debris caught in tow, some pieces from the station others from his own ship. Shortly after the stabber forced its way out of the warp tunnel, rattling painfully as it decelerated. Coming to a gliding halt, the ship lurched slightly to the side as the thrusters engaged, one of them damaged by a final laser blow and now directing its thrust to the side. Darius shut the engines down, stabilised the trajectory of the ship and assessed the damage.

Getting away from the station was not easy, and it was do doubt about to get more difficult from here onwards. It would not be long now before the system is locked down by the navy. If he stood any chance of escape at all, he would have to move fast.

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2005/08/07/part-4-betrayal/feed/0Part 3 – Encountershttp://vandeamon.com/2005/02/04/part-3-encounters/
http://vandeamon.com/2005/02/04/part-3-encounters/#respondFri, 04 Feb 2005 15:10:23 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=193Read More]]>The day had come for Darius to make his first supply delivery to Ramar’s new unit. The destination was deep in the Derelik region, the heart of the Ammatar system. Darius had mixed feelings about the Ammatar people. True, they were cousins by blood and those ties would always be stronger than those that were formed in words. Maybe that is why it hurts the Minmatar people so to think about their betrayal. Such hurt often translated as anger and hatred in many people he had spoken to on the matter. However, he had heard the stories of the once shunned child who preached to her peers that the Minmatar would be a better race if the Ammatar would rejoin them and be forgiven. Later in life, she received the Voluval mark of destiny that was known as the “Ray of Matar” at her Voluval ceremony that symbolized a future of great importance to the Minmatar people. Suddenly, people began to listen to her and her argument more than they had, and with less contempt for what she was saying. Darius too wished that his people could be united once more. However, it was not just the Ammatar, or the Nefantar as they were once known. It also included the Thukker who had prophesied the Amarr invasion of Matar, then fled before the Amarr invasion when no one listened to them, and the Starkmanir who were nearly annihilated under the orders of the Amarr heir, Idonis Ardishapure in revenge for his father’s death in the uprising that lead to his people’s freedom. However, the realism of the situation shows that such unity was no longer possible and as such, Darius could only afford to dream of it, nothing more.

Darius had his reservations about this job. Ramar had assured him that it would be no more routine than his previous work. Despite that, Darius felt uneasy. There was still something about his meeting with his new contact, by the name of Tourvel, that tormented Darius with thoughts that he could not articulate. The Minmatar was a little detached and, as Ramar had described, off balance. But it was more than that, there was something in his eyes that was not right. Unlike previous people he had dealt with, who would bore a hole into the back of your skull with their eyes in constant suspicion of you, Tourvel’s gaze seemed empty as they made eye contact at that meeting behind the bar. Almost as if he was looking through Darius rather than at him. Even when Darius had him pinned against the wall and his gun to the man’s throat.

For the last two days, Darius had been working out a fitting for the new Stabber he had been given by Ramar. It was called the ‘Vurlan’, after its previous owner’s pet wild cat. He was told before being given it that it was “fully loaded”, to quote Ramar’s exact words. That hardly came close to the reality of the situation. Immediately as it pulled into the hangar, there were obvious signs of damage along the armor. When he asked the pilot, before he made a quick departure, if he had been attacked on his way here, he shrugged and shook his head.

“She looked that way when I picked it up last week.” He said. “She hasn’t seen combat since then.” Darius was, to say the least, bemused with that. Surely if it had been forced into combat in the state it was in it would have been destroyed quickly.

When Darius made his way through the ship to inspect the fitted modules and weapons, things went from bad to worse. Ok, so maybe Ramar was on a tight budget, that came with the territory of being a freedom fighter. But Auto Cannons? Sure they were all 425mm guns, the largest of the breed, but if you are going to limit your range even Darius knew that there were better weapons than that. And the missile bays were laughable as they were equipped with a standard frigate-size missile launcher each, both of them rigged to squeeze in two heavy missiles. If Darius were to get into a fight, he had hoped to fire something a little more substantial than the moderate warheads on these missiles, if the launchers worked at all.

At least he had some time to work things out and equip the ship properly before leaving. And he was fairly satisfied with the work that was done in the short space of time allotted before his mission. He had replaced the two light launchers for heavy bays, and filled them with cruise missiles. However he also kept the heavy missiles too in case he had to fire at something that was moving faster. He also had two of the 425mm autocannons ripped off and replaced with two 650mm artillery cannons for longer range battery, keeping the other two autocannons in reserve for smaller ships.

And not a moment too soon as his package had arrived, wrapped in a much larger one that concealed the true nature of the real merchandise. He was not entirely sure what it was, nor did he care. He was told that it was a supply of weapons, both personal and ship mounted. As a small forklift loaded the pallets into the ships open cargo bay, that uneasy feeling came back around again. The drop off point was not in space as usual. In matter of fact, it was in an Ammatar station. Ramar had insisted that this be the method for the first delivery, and he assured Darius that the port master at that station was one of their own men and would turn a blind eye to the exchange. It was also essential to deliver in the station and not space as the ships they had were still unarmed, and going into space would put them at the mercy of fate, not to mention the Ammatar security. Should their exchange be found out by the security forces or the navy, they would be wiped out for sure. In future, all drop offs would be in space as they had always been. If nothing else, Darius would insist that this be the case. However, this did not serve to ease his mind.

The high pitch sound of the forklifts reverse warning buzzer broke his train of thought as if some giant bird of prey were loose in the hangar. The load master reported that all was secure and asked Darius if he wished to inspect the cargo before proceeding. Without so much as looking at the crewman in acknowledgment or reply, Darius simply gave his thumb print on the pad and headed for the elevator that led to the overhead gantry accessing his ships hatch. The hiss of the hydraulically lifted platform was followed by a dry clunk as the lift reached the top, the sound of Darius’ boots on the metal grating that passed for loading platform resonated through the hangar above all the noises in his mind as he reached the hatch and, with the press of a pressure pad, the hatch slid down and locked behind him. A resounding thud signaled that the pressure locks had activated, and with that, the Vurlan was ready to depart into the cold black of space.

The trip had been long, uninteresting and filled with deep introspection and soul searching. Darius had never regretted any decision he had made in life. Even when he was a youth on Matar, in an effort to impress a girl whom he liked, he climbed to the roof of the domed tribal hall of his family to show her his strength. He had climbed that roof many times when he was a child, much to his mother’s frustration as she repeatedly admonished him for doing so. He had nearly reached the top of the dome, that was made of traditional dried and bound Kerma tree roots, when he made the mistake of straying too far from the thick wood support beams. These roofs could withstand heavy storms that brew off the coast of the islands several times a year, yet they are not strong enough to take direct weight pressing down on the top. Darius fell through the roof and crashed through a table in the room below, broke his shoulder, and severely dented his pride. Still, he didn’t regret it as it was a learning experience for him and showed him how being bigger, despite having its advantages, could also have its drawbacks if taken for granted. As for the girl he was trying to impress, as much of a fool as he had made himself look, she so sorry for him that she nursed him back to health, and in the process became fond of him. They were together for several years after that. And it gave them both something to laugh at from time to time, though she would laugh more than him. Especially when she would recount the tale to her friends, family, and total strangers while socializing.

Darius turned his attention back to his work. He did not regret choosing to work like this, far from it. He knew deep in his Brutor heart that he was at least doing something effective to help end slavery. But he felt it had come at a personal cost. Were his doubts about this mission signs that he was becoming increasingly paranoid? Maybe it was the curse of such a lifestyle. One could never be too careful and, after a while, you tended to suspect everyone. Maybe that was why Tourvel seemed to behave so oddly. Would he end up like him in the future?

Darius afforded himself a glance at his navigation computer, and he quickly realized that he was parked at the opposite jump gate in his destination system. He did not know how long he had been sitting there, he had lost all track of time. He cursed himself for letting his thoughts distract him and engaged the warp drive to the station. He sent an advanced message to the port master to let him know he would be there in a couple of minutes, then cursed himself again for losing his concentration like that while he was in, what was effectively, enemy territory. If the Ammatar security had found out about the true nature of his cargo he would surely be dead by now. Even this stabber would not last long against an Ammatar security or fleet attack force. This job was indeed getting to him and beginning to compromise his work.

His ship rattled and shook, as it always did, as it forced its way out of a warp tunnel and glided to a silent halt outside the station. He sent the usual automated request to dock and made his way to the perimeter anchor. As he neared, there was no reply. His ship grew ever close to the station docking bay as he waited. He felt a hot prickly sensation in the back of his head. Something was not right about this. He panned the camera around and activated the scanner. Nothing. He was now less than a kilometer from the docking zone, he would cross that in a few seconds. Something definitely was not right. Was it a trap? Maybe their port master was not as reliable as they had said. Or maybe he had been captured by security? We began to think about warping from the area…

“Docking request accepted.” Blurted the automated voice over the channel as he neared the docking bay. “Power down your engines, your ship will be towed into hangar 6.” Darius let out a long and heavy breath. He hated station drop-offs. If they would pick them up in space, this would not be a problem. He knew what to expect there as he would fly there, jettison the goods at the right time and fly away again. It was their responsibility after that if they didn’t get there before he left to pick up the goods.

With his ship docked and secured in the bay, Darius punched the code into the main hatch and pressed the pressure pad and it hissed open. The sudden rush of fresh air inside the station was nice, it always was. Though it was not that much fresher than the re-circulated air in his ship, it was different. He stepped onto the platform that extended towards his ships hatch and walked towards a door at the end of it. There was no hangar floor below him, only a void that seemed to stretch forever. The hangar was built level with the side of the ship and accessed from the walkway through this door further down to the left. Another door just passed that one, and dead ahead no doubt led to the station admin area and pilot’s quarters, then the residential and commercial sectors beyond. As he walked, he noticed that the gantry seemed different. Not only was it a solid construction rather than the metal grate in a Minmatar station, it was also carpeted down the middle with white and blue marble on either side. It was somewhat different from the clunky metal walkways high above the ground in the Minmatar stations and even some Caldari stations he had visited. It felt a little strange under foot, somewhat softer than he was used to and felt slightly springy as if the floor was moving below him. For months now, Darius had been used to walking on hard metal and concrete floors of stations and hangar walkways. This felt more like he was walking on the soft ground of a planet.

Darius pushed the door open and went through into the hangar section. It felt strange to him as he was usually looking up towards the bottom of his ship, not the side of it. There were several people removing the crates with anti-grav loaders. They didn’t look like station crew. He was about to ask who they were until he noticed Tourvel approaching him from the other side of the hangar, those vacant eyes staring right through him again.

“Nice to see you again Darius.” He said with a smile as they shook hands. Despite the smile, his words seemed to echo in monotone through the hangar area. Darius just nodded in response. They both turned to watch the men unload. Darius was not entirely sure what to say during these proceedings if anything at all. Usually, he would open a comms channel to a ship that came to claim the container he would have jettisoned. Code words would be exchanged and when confirmed, Darius would move off from the container. It was better like that as he preferred to avoid as much personal contact with his customers as possible. Not so much out of snobbery, just a simple fact that the less they knew about each other, the better it would be for both of them if the worst happened. It seemed that Tourvel shared this sentiment as he did not make small talk while the crew unloaded the crates in front of them.

The silence was broken by a quiet but nervous voice behind them.

“Excuse me sir?” Asked the voice. Darius turned to see a rather thin and pale looking Ammatar.

“What?” Barked Darius. The man recoil as if he had just had a heart attack.

“I’m the port master here.” Darius realized that this must be their inside man. “Could I get your thumb print?” Darius hesitated for a second. He didn’t expect to have to sign anything. “It’s OK Mr Krane, you permits have been… taken care of.” Darius was about to correct the man on his name before he got the idea, and nodded. Darius pressed his thumb to the pad and gave his print. The name on the pad and the picture that matched the file was not him. No doubt this was to ensure that the paper work seemed in order for the station authorities.

“I also need your invoices, sir.” He asked nervously, as if being scared of being swatted away by the large Brutor who was nearly half-again his size. Darius reached into his jacket inner pocket. As he did he realized he had left them in his ship.

“I must have left them back on my ship. Wait here, I’ll get them.” With that, he quickly marched back to the ship’s hatch and made his way to the bridge.

As Darius neared the door that led back towards the hangar, he heard raised voices from inside. He stopped short of the door and listened for a second.

“Watch it! Don’t damage those chips!” He heard Tourvel shouting at a young crewman, who had just recovered a falling box before it landed on the hard hangar floor. “Be careful with them, you idiot.”

“Sorry, sir.” Replied the crewman, nervously. Darius glanced around the corner and saw other men removing several small cases from the packages. They were obviously not ship-class weapons, they were too small. Maybe they were explosives? One of the men opened the case he had nearly dropped to inspect the goods and pulled out an optical data chip. Tourvel walked over to the crewman and checked the chip, then the crate for any damage. He turned to the withering crewman.

“These chips contain plans of the Minmatar resistance’s push into our space next week.” He said coldly. “Ships, weapons, fleet layouts, everything. Break them and I will break you, understand?” Darius’ heart pounded in his chest, and blood ran cold. He didn’t know what was happening, but this was definitely not what was supposed to happen. Those crates should have contained personal and ship mounted weapons and several crates of ammo, all hidden between cases of fruit and consumer products. Not optical data chips that had plans of a Minmatar push into this space. This was supposed to be the push into Ammatar space. He waited a few more seconds until the boxes had been packed up and then stepped around the corner. He would have to play dumb to survive this and get out of here in one piece. Once he was back in Minmatar space he would have to make contact with Ramar immediately and let him know what he had seen today. Ramar was falling into a trap with these men.

“I have those invoices for you.” He said to the port master.

“What took you so long?” Asked Tourvel. “We were wondering about you.” Again with a smile.

“I couldn’t find them at first. I had left them somewhere else.” Darius shrugged and handed them to the port master. As he took them from his hands, Darius noticed the tattoos on his arms. A simple cross-hatch pattern. Darius looked up at the port master for a second. A flash of familiarity ran through his brain like a lightning bolt, here then gone in an instant.

“Anything wrong?” He asked. Darius tried to concentrate on what had just run through his mind, to grasp it before it eluded him again. That tattoo. He had seen that pattern somewhere before. He looked at Tourvel, then down at his arms. They were covered by long sleeves. He remembered their meeting in the alley behind the bar that day. They were the same tattoos he had seen on Tourvel’s arms when they shook hands the first time they met. He looked back up at Tourvel again; all the crewmen had stopped working and were watching the exchange of glances.

“Darius?” Asked Tourvel innocently. This man, he was not a Minmatar, he was an Ammatar too! Tourvel could see the realization in Darius’ eyes and glanced back to his men. Several of them began to step forwards.

”Get back!” shouted Darius as he reached into his jacket and pulled out his shot blaster. The same one he had used to threaten Tourvel with when they were in the alley. Darius leveled the gun towards Tourvel, who was now in a defensive stance. Tourvel held an arm out to his men as if to hold them back. Now he could see it. For the first time, there was something in Tourvel’s eyes. They were cold as steel. He was no longer looking through Darius, he was looking straight at him, burning with a mix of rage and smug superiority.

“You really think you’re going to get away from here?” He asked. Darius looked for a second, and then started to take steps backward towards the door to go back to his ship. “I doubt that you could shoot all of us before you are overrun.” He remarked.

“Perhaps,” replied Darius as he pulled the firing pin back on the huge gun, “but anyone moves too fast for my taste and you die first. Get it?!”

Darius reached the door and took a step back onto the platform leading to his ship. As he did, he caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye from his right on the platform where the access door was. Darius swung his gun around to meet the intruder, an Ammatar security officer with a charged neural rod, made to stun. The man stepped back quickly and raised his hands.

“DROP IT!” Darius shouted to the man. But before he could, another movement back to his left in the hangar caught his attention. He swung back around and, before he could level his gun on the target, he was struck by a sharp shock of energy from the stun-pulse gun that the port master had produced from under his robe. White hot pain shot through every nerve in Darius’ body, every muscle tightened and tensed as if they had been stabbed by a thousand hot knives. As quick as that, Darius collapsed in spasm on the walkway as his world filled with darkness.

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2005/02/04/part-3-encounters/feed/0Part 2 – Liaisonshttp://vandeamon.com/2004/07/11/part-2-liaisons/
http://vandeamon.com/2004/07/11/part-2-liaisons/#respondSun, 11 Jul 2004 11:15:37 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=192Read More]]>Darius opened his eyes and stretched as his command pod opened and he breathed the must air in his ship. Many people find the smell of re-circulated air rather unpleasant compared to the fresh oxygen of the pod, but for Darius, it was the smell that greeted him with open arms every time he set foot out of his pod and back at a station where a real bed awaited him. It was the smell of home. As his ship was towed into the docking area, the soft orange glow of the station’s lights that line the access tunnel dripped through the bridge windows like nectar, creating strands of light that danced over the control panels.

Darius enjoyed this part of the docking process at Minmatar stations. Regulations on ship safety were quite clear that the crew must remain in their pods until the ship is secured at the docking point, but Darius knew that it was rarely enforced. And, though to many captains it was a simple matter, Darius never liked to miss the sight in the station as the airlock opened at the end of the dimly lit access tunnel. As they approached, the doors opened slightly as the old gearing caught hold of the door and a shaft of light raced forward to greet his ship before the doors finally began to open and his ship, and his bridge, slowly flooded with light. The light was not too bright and was quite bearable, though this was more by necessity than design as the lights were cheap and produced little light.

Darius recalled the first time he docked at a Gallente station. He opened his pod and stepped onto the bridge of his ship as he was towed into position. As soon as his ship entered the access tunnel, the lights that led the way to the airlock were bright white and stung his eyes a little. Soon they were used to it but he often wondered if this was a good thing for such an advanced race. After all, pilots had just emerged from their pods after several hours with their eyes shut. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise that their station owners were so tight with their money?

Darius had just returned from a successful cargo run for Ramar. His job had been to locate and deliver some rare gunnery upgrades to another courier for their fleet of cruisers. He had also accepted a courier job from a private corporation to deliver some food supplies to another station that would take him past his rendezvous. It was a fairly large shipment but would not take up all the room in his Probe frigate, Razorback. There was still room to smuggle the various components inside the boxes and crates. The real problem was customs checks at stations. Though again, easily controlled as Ramar’s people had a man on the inside who could manipulate records. It was a simple matter to let him know what the order number was for the official delivery and what weight to change it to. Then new documents were delivered to Darius that day at the station so he could substitute them for the old ones if checked before he drops of his real cargo. Then the changes would be made again to restore the original weight stats for the cargo once a specific time was reached when the drop was to be made. The fake documents were discarded safely and the originals were then presented at the receiving station with his delivery order, and as needed if he had to dock before getting there.

Of course, this system was not perfect but it was safer than just taking the risk. And it had served Darius well so far as he was a reputable courier from a well-known tribe on Matar, so little questions were asked as long as the paperwork was in order. Another trick he had learned in the last few months while in the employment of the resistance cell was to make runs at peak time while the space lanes were busy and stations were full of traders and couriers. Customs inspectors with a busy schedule tend to be less willing to spend time searching through cargo for illegal goods.

Darius had been at this for several months now since that day he shared a bottle with Ramar and mused about the past. Darius was not sorry that he had chosen this path. He was, in fact, happy that he was making a difference. Once a month he would meet with Ramar, who had since become his handler, and would be briefed on his upcoming month’s work and Ramar would also share some stories of the deeds of his cell’s fleet. It warmed his heart to hear of slaves being rescued with the equipment that he supplied them with. And it was for that reason he was at this station today.

Darius made his way over to the hatch to his ship and stepped out onto the gantry that led to the lifts down to the habitat area and the commercial sectors of the station. It was here that he was to meet Ramar in a bar. It always struck Darius as strange that they should talk business in such a public place, but it also made sense to hide in plain sight. Darius entered the bar and suddenly found himself wishing that “plain sight” would look a little cleaner. Something about Ramar that he could never figure out was that he always seemed comfortable in dirty surroundings. Maybe it was the curse of the life he leads. Such places were frequented by like-minded people, branded criminals by the state, who would not raise an eyebrow at the matters they were to discuss tonight. Some with good cause, others out of necessity, but more a controversial policy within the Republic. Such people are labeled terrorist, but prefer to be called “freedom fighters”. It was, however, a mute argument as it depends on what side of the fence you stand on. Darius had to walk that fine line along the fence posts to try to say objective. He could ill afford to fall off and into either camp as it would surely jeopardize his business.

He scanned the room and quickly found Ramar sitting in a corner booth with 2 glasses and a bottle of something dark, thick and most likely high proof. Darius knew then that this would be a long night guaranteed to end in a headache in the middle of the night while being jabbed in the ribs by a security officer who found him lying in a shop doorway. Either that or the security lockup’s drunk-tank. Ramar saw him enter and waved him over to the table.

As they started the bottle, Darius realized that the drinking might not be as prolonged as he originally assumed. It did not take Ramar long to get down to business. After Darius had gone over his last month’s work, they moved on to the next month.

“I have a new route for you Dar,” stated Ramar, “if you are interested that is.”

“Where to?”

“We have managed to get a cell in Ammatar space.” Darius looked up from his drink, set it down and leaned forwards in interest. “We need to get a supply of weapons to them and some ammo. A local factory owner is making ships for them but he has no blueprints for weapons and we have none to spare at the moment. Until then they are defenseless and we need to arm them, pronto” Darius nodded in agreement. He was guessing that most of the people there were new to the cause since they needed new ships. Darius was about to ask about it but he decided the little he knew the better. And it was likely that there would be experienced people there too, and not just a bunch of rookies. Otherwise, it might be a short-lived enterprise, to say the least.

“How many runs to I need to do?”

“For now we can get all we need there in one run as the unit is rather small for now, but you would do better to take a bigger ship than your Probe.”

“What’s wrong with my Probe?” Asked Darius. “It’s faster than any cruiser and has more cargo space too.”

“It’s not that. Cargo space and speed don’t matter too much. It’s just that Ammatar security can be a little pushy with people in smaller ships. Especially Minmatars. Take a cruiser instead in case you need the fire power for show.”

“OK but I don’t have one anymore. Lost the last one in a belt in low sec.” Ramar nodded, an amused smile on his face.

“I know you can fly one, though. I will let you borrow a Stabber we have in reserve. It’s armed to the teeth too so you have little to worry about.”

“Who would I be dealing with there?” Ramar looked at him, and then around the room before standing up. Darius looked puzzled for a second until Ramar nodded his head towards the door.

Darius followed Ramar, who had not said a word about where they were going. He followed him out of the bar and round the back into a dirty alley where the trash resided. Nice, he thought. Why was Ramar acting like this? They rounded the corner and into an open space that was empty. Darius was about to open his mouth and ask what they were doing here, or even if Ramar thought they were being watched when he caught a glimpse of movement in the shadows out of the corner of his eye. Ever quick to react, Darius lunged into the figure and as quick as that he was up against the wall with his gun to the intruder’s neck.

“DARIUS!” Shouted Ramar “Wait!” Darius looked into the eyes of another Minmatar peering out of the shadows cast by his robe, then looked at Ramar who was, by now, half laughing while gesturing for Darius to let him go. “Damn Dar, feeling a little jumpy? It’s ok, he’s with us, and he’s here to meet you.”

Darius backed away slowly and put his gun away, a crude but effective variant of an age-old shot blaster with a smaller, but deadly cartridge at close range. These were fed through from a cylindrical drum magazine that holds 20 cartridges loaded with a dozen ball bearings each, and fired down a short barrel with a wide bore. It could also be loaded with thick slugs and anti-armour rounds, though these were more effective with a longer barrel in a rifle configuration.

“Nice to see the man can take care of himself.” Said the stranger with a slight chuckle in his voice.

“Sorry about that,” replied Darius, “you kind of caught me on high alert.”

“Darius gets a few drinks down him and he goes all paranoid” laughed Ramar. “Dar, this is Tourvel, he is the second in command of the new unit I was telling you about.” Darius nods in Tourvel’s direction. “This is the man you will be dealing with on your supply runs for them.” Darius and Tourvel shook hands. Tourvel’s grip was a little weak, usually a sign of nerves. Already Darius asked himself why such a man would be nervous. As their hands parted, Darius glanced down briefly and caught sight of a tribal pattern tattoo extending from the man’s wrist up his sleeve. It was a simple criss-cross pattern like Darius had never seen before. However, there was something familiar about it that Darius could not quite place in his mind.

“So,” continued Ramar, “When can we begin supply runs?”

“I was hoping to get the supplies delivered by the week’s end,” said Tourvel seriously. Darius looked at Ramar.

“I should assume that the usual security procedures would be in place that I use for existing runs?” He asked his friend.

“Yes.” He said. “I will see to it at both ends. I know some people who can set it up on this route. So you’re going to piggyback the delivery with some legit cargo?” Darius nodded at that. Tourvel simply looked at Darius for a few second as if deciding something.

“Have any questions?” Darius asked him.

“No, that’s fine. I am not specifically familiar with the method you speak of, though it doesn’t matter. As long as you deliver with no problems.”

“I have been doing this for months now. It works, I assure you of that.”

“Forgive me for being a little doubtful. It is nothing personal, just that I am always a little skeptical about working with new people. If you say you can deliver, then I shall take your word for it.” There was a slightly tense pause between the two men as Darius weighed up what he had just said. Why would it be personal at all? They didn’t know each other so why make such a statement to begin with? Darius dismissed it as a simple figure of speech.

“OK guys,” said Ramar, breaking the silence. “Let’s do business. Tourvel, I will fill you in on Darius’ methods of delivery in full next time we talk business. Trust me it’s reliable.” Tourvel looked at Ramar, smiled and bowed slightly. “Fancy a drink with us?” he asked.

“No, I must leave quickly. I have much to attend to.” With that, he bowed to the two men again and quickly left the alleyway. Ramar slapped his hand on Darius’ shoulder firmly.

“Well, it looks like it’s you and me and a bottle of the good stuff.” Darius groaned. He too had hoped to make a swift getaway and avoid the sickly feeling that often followed one of these meetings.

When they settled back down at their table, their bottle still present oddly enough, Darius took a quick drink and gazed deep into the table.

“Something wrong?” Asked Ramar

“I’m not sure.” He replied. “Are you sure he is trustworthy? Something about him doesn’t add up.” Ramar simply grinned.

“You will get used to him. I have been working with him since I joined by brothers band of rebels. He is… he’s just like that. A little off to the side of most people. I don’t know if that’s just how he is or if he does it on purpose to try and see how people react to him. I haven’t decided yet.” He grinned again and poured another glass for each of them. As they drank, Darius was still back in the encounter in the alley. He was still troubled about it for some reason. It was more than just putting people off balance, it was almost as if he didn’t want to be there at all. Especially in the final moments of the conversation when he excused himself. And the way he was looking at him was more than skepticism, maybe borderline distrust. OK, that is only natural when working with new people. Or maybe it was Darius and his dislike for change in what had become routine for him. Only time would tell, in the way that it always did.

]]>http://vandeamon.com/2004/07/11/part-2-liaisons/feed/0Part 1 – Beginningshttp://vandeamon.com/2004/01/16/part-1-beginnings/
http://vandeamon.com/2004/01/16/part-1-beginnings/#respondFri, 16 Jan 2004 14:39:08 +0000http://vandeamon.com/?p=189Read More]]>In his early years at the Pator Tech School in Ryddinjorn, Darius Shakor had wished he could do so much more. Always interested in galactic politics, he learned from an early age about the enslavement of the Minmatar people at the hands of the Amarr, and had suffered the foul legacy first-hand. Darius was a member of a small but proud clan that was once much larger and held great sway on the south-east island of Matar as merchants and warriors. Darius’s ancestors were among the council members that represented the Brutor at the formation of the High Clan Council that was set up between the Brutor clan and the Sebiestor long before the Amarr brought their evil ways to the homeland. Under the Amarr rule, many of the larger clans were either “convinced” to aid the Amarr with political propaganda or be subjugated for their refusal to comply. Despite the devastation his defiant clan suffered, they remained strong-willed despite their small numbers.

Because of this his clan, although still small, was accorded the respect of many Brutor and Sebiestor for their gallant stance. The elders of his clan, many decades before he was born, were the first to jointly organize and rally the factions of rebels into a liberation army against the Amarr and through this action, many of the liberated joined their ranks and eventually drove the Amarr out. But not before nearly all of his ancestors were wiped out in battle. The few that remained were honored as heroes of Matar. Such a clan in the days of old would have been absorbed by a larger rival clan, however, their status spared them that. But they were not without enemies, as their actions against the Amarr held dire consequences for many others who quietly cursed their name. But their allies were just as strong and thus the clan was protected. During the reconstruction of the council building after the occupation, it was decided that the entrance hall would be dedicated to the fallen heroes of Matar from the liberation war. Darius was proud that the entire wall around the grand door to the chamber was dedicated to his clan and to have the names of his ancestors imprinted there for all time.

His father was on a trade run far from home when his ship was crippled by slavers working for the Amarr and was abducted when he was a young man. For many years his father was made to suffer at the hands of an Amarrian holder whose family once held territory in Matar that was rich in mineral wealth. This territory was liberated by his clan in the war and his father had the honor, and misfortune to bear the clan tattoo that the evil Holder recognized, and had burned from his very flesh on the first day of slavery, even before he was injected with the Vitoc. His father’s hatred for this man was burning deep in his soul and long he plotted his move. He knew how cruel this holder’s family had been in the occupation from stories his grandfather told, and he had been robbed of his birthright markings and even his mark of destiny by this hateful creature. While he was becoming more subservient on the surface, deep down to the bone he spent many years gaining the trust of this holder until one day on a business trip, he and the holder were the only souls on board along with the pilot of the private yacht and a case of Vitoc antidote to last the journey there and back.

His course was clear and true as he slain the holder once they were out of his domain and killed the pilot, ejecting both into space before taking his place in the pod and piloting the ship home. For many days he evaded and tricked Amarrian security services in a game of cat and mouse trying to get out of Amarrian space. He managed to convince a border guard that his visual comm relay was malfunctioning, (in fact it was smashed to bits by his own hands), and then that he was on a diplomatic trip to Gallente space on behalf of his holder who he professed to be on board but unavailable. It worked and he was free at last and headed for home before running into a patrol of Minmatar security officers who took him on board and treated him for dehydration, as the ship was low on supplies and only used for short range travel, before returning him to his family land on Matar.

Darius’ mother was a refined woman from a small tribe that hailed from the same island chain as his clan. More than that, she was a nurse on the same ship he was rescued by and took to caring for him. She even requested leave to be with him as his nursemaid until his strength returned. There was more than that to their relationship as soon after they were engaged to be married. His father had to endure the pain of the Vitoc poison all his life and the humiliation of acquiring the antidote. As his clan heritage was strong, that was not a problem as he was held up by the council as another example of Amarrian legacy and the courage of his people.

Years after his marriage to his new wife, he settled into a quiet life back on the home world in the cradle of his clan and surrounded by his family who admired him. Occasionally he would attend political talks and give a speech on how the slaves are treated and how little the other Empires do for them despite their claims. However, his life was cut short as the Vitoc poison in his body mutated into something new. Had he been with the holder, he would have received a new injection to rectify this problem. However, that was impossible and the regular antidote was having no effect. His father died several months later but not before he was able to cradle his own son, a new life born weeks before his final breath, in his arms before his own life was drained away.

Twenty-eight years later Darius was a student of the Pator Tech School. At the Tech School, many of his fellow students in his industrial management class would voice hatred for the Amarr over the deeds of the past. While Darius has such hate having learned of his father’s ordeal from his mother many years ago, he never points the blame at the Amarrians of today as many of them share the views that slavery is wrong. None the less it still happens today and many slaves are kidnapped in open space as his father was, but the authorities will do nothing.

One of Darius’ closest friends, Ramar, shared this view and happened to be the brother of a man who was high up in an anti-slavery rebel organization. Often he would brag that his brother was going to get him a spot in the organization when he leaves the Tech School and would go fight the Amarr who keep and trade in slaves. Darius had turned down his offer to get him a place too as he preferred a more diplomatic approach.

After Darius had graduated from the Tech School, he settled into the career of a miner. The money was short, and he was soon longing for something new. After nearly a year, Darius decided to mine in some more risky space. He had just dropped his last load off at the station and met a man who was buying on behalf of the station. Demand was low for now and the price was smaller than Darius would have liked. But he needed the money for repairs to his combat drones and ship which took some damage when some Arch Angel pirates took exception to his mining activity. He often wondered if it would be in the best interest of the economy to clear up the belts that held the more precious ores.

Later in the day he was forcing down a rather unappetizing snack from the canteen and reading a bulletin board on the wall. The place he was sitting was part of the main promenade as he could only stand the smell of the canteen as long as he could hold his breath. If there was no queue that would be long enough to get in, select something with haste and pay on his way to the door at rapid pace. It was either that or he would risk a lung full of the air in there and whatever ill health that came with it. He wasn’t exactly sure what this thing he selected from the shelf was as he just grabbed anything. But from what he can remember, most of it all looked the same anyway. Station food was never very good in this part of Metropolis, or at least in the Minmatar stations anyway. That alone depressed him as he knew that his people could make much better delights than this. If you go planet side you will have your choice of many fine meats, fresh vegetables and sweet foods.

Since the Amarr occupation and the following rebellion, such things are in short supply and restricted to planets and their colonies. His own grandfather would tell him tales of his business he owned when he was a young man soon after the occupation that would produce the best meat tenders in the east island chain. However, the business was losing money as only the richest clans would buy from him and only in short supply. As far as he was concerned, this foul smelling paste he was eating out of a plastic wrapper was simply the legacy of the occupation. However, its vile taste and smell was more than enough reason to throw it in the nearest bin, than for what it represented. The only thing stopping him was the fact that he was hungry, and one would have to be to eat this slop.

It was the graveyard hour in the station and few people were about on the main decks as they were either in their quarters or one of the several establishments. Darius got sick of sitting in the wide and dimly lit void that was the promenade and took a walk to the docking ring. He was going back to his ship to plot a course home and rest while the ship flew back to Pator on autopilot. The narrow and dirty hallways were poorly lit and Darius couldn’t help but wonder what the shadows gave refuge to. With that thought, suddenly, an arm grabbed him around the neck, pulling his head back and he felt something press against his back.

“Give me your mone…”

Before the assailant could finish, Darius’s quick reactions and strength had him over his shoulder, his arm free from around the neck and in a nasty lock, and he landed on his back on the station floor with a thud. Darius was reaching for his knife when the hair over his assailant’s face fell to one side and he saw a familiar face laughing in pain. He was taken back for a second until recollection kicked in and he realized it was his old friend, Ramar.

“Whoa, chill out Dar.” He half laughed, half screamed. Darius, shocked for a minute slowly pulled his friend off the floor and released his arm. He then saw that what he had poked in his back was nothing more than a rolled up magazine, the theme of which he dared not to guess at knowing his friend’s taste in literature.

“Ramar?” he asked.

“You sure know how to have a good laugh, Darius.” He replied as he flexed his arm to get the blood flowing again with a big grin on his face.

“You sure know how to say hi to an old friend.” Darius retorted with a little anger in his voice. Ramar was taken back by this sudden tone, worried that he had upset his friend. Then Darius let out a big grin, laughed loudly and clasped Ramar’s shoulders. Both men laughed and shared brief questions about how each had been since the graduation. Both men had not seen each other in many months and, at the Tech School, were as close as brothers. Even over that time, a bond like that cannot be worn thin or forgotten.

Ramar explained that he had become a member of his brother’s organization and was fighting the slavers. Darius also explained that he was engaged in mining and owned a converted Stabber cruiser and a Hoarder for large hauls. Then they made their way to a bar and shared stories of their adventures. The bar itself was doing a good job of keeping in with the overall theme of the station. Dirty, dim and maybe a little toxic. He thought that there should be a public health sign that read:

“Under no circumstances should you let any part of your bare skin

come into contact with the surfaces of this establishment!”

Darius and Ramar ordered a bottle of drink at the bar and 2 short glasses. He knew then that he would no doubt be spending the night on his ship in the hangar rather than returning to his home base several jumps away. He would remember this from his university days with Ramar as they would go through at least 2 full bottles of anything that was on the go in one night before either finding some action or passing out in the process. Oddly enough the tables were made of wood and they made their way to a corner booth under a dim light and began to share stories. Ramar poured the first glasses and, as always, his aim with a bottle was even worse than in zero G. He spilled a little on the wood table and Darius was sure that on contact, he saw a wisp of smoke and heard a faint hiss from the surface. Taking a deep breath, he picked up the glass, held his breath and, after a salute, downed it in one. Despite the heavy drinking days of the Tech School, he was sure that this was stronger than he could remember as his throat burned and his eyes watered as the fire erupted up his nose causing him to cough and splutter. He looked over at Ramar who was simply clearing his throat and making a noise as if he was a kid drinking Strawberry Quafe.

“Haha, a little strong for you Darius?” Asked Ramar. Darius struggled to make the words in his throat. He wanted to say “Water!” or some kind of plea for help. Ramar continued to laugh.

“Man you are out of practice.” It was not so much that as it was the fact that the spirits they used to drink at the Tech School station were not as strong as this. Obviously being in the rebel resistance had done more than make a fighter out of Ramar. As his throat soothed he put the glass down and grabbed the bottle with a grin on his tear-soaked face.

“You wait and see,” retorted Darius, “I will put you under the table tonight!” And with that, he poured another, raised the glass and they gulped it down together again.

While they were killing brain cells with liquor strong enough to degrease the plasma injectors on his Stabber’s warp core chamber, they shared many tales of tight situations over the last months. Darius had little to tell Ramar who had many stories of battle and freeing slaves. Eventually, the conversation steered to Darius wanting to make more money and Ramar mentioned that they are always looking for outside traders who will supply them with ammo and equipment for the rebellion. It took some convincing as Darius always favored a more diplomatic approach. However, part of the newscast he was reading earlier was about anti-slavery negotiations between the Gallente and the Amarr hosted by CONCORD and how the negotiations had reached a deadlock. Even Darius could see that this was common place and had been like this for as long as he could remember. In over 100 years there had never been any kind of breakthrough in negotiations to end slavery and nothing had changed.

As Darius settled into a grim drunken state, he could not help but remember the tears of his mother in his childhood as she recounted the tale of how she and his father met, what he had gone through and how he had died. His mother had recently passed away and he returned to his home planet when she was taken ill to be with her. The events of that night would replay in his mind as clear as if they were yesterday. On the night she died, Darius was keeping a quiet vigil at her bedside as she drifted in and out of consciousness. Despite her delirium from the fever, she took a clear look at him as he was resting his head on the bedside and took his face in her free hand. He opened his eyes to see his mother smiling faintly and clearly stated that she was proud of him and how much like his father he had become. With tears flowing from her eyes she stated her love for him, and then slowly closed them as her hand gently fell to the bed and she quietly slipped away. In his shock, he stepped away from the bed as the medical staff rushed in and worked around him. One of them moved him into the hallway outside the room and was saying something to him, but he could not hear the words nor did he want to. Then as quickly as the memory came he returned to the present as Ramar’s voice cut through his attention. He realized he had drifted off for a second and Ramar was clasping his shoulder with his hand. Even Ramar could see that the tears on his friend’s face were not caused by the strong broth they were drinking.

Later that night, Darius was taking accommodation in his Hoarder cabin and as much as he had to drink, he was thinking clearly for the first time since he left the Tech School and wondered if maybe it was time to take another approach…

A month later, Darius was making his 4th ammo supply run that week for his friend and the rebel organization he was a part of. Darius had not been offered membership, nor would he accept for the simple reason that he wanted to stay clean in the eyes of the law. It was good money and somewhat exciting with all the cloak and dagger stuff and under the table deals. His contact was a corporation liaison that acted as a legal front for the rebels. Most of the money they made was used to sponsor the rebels and buy the ammo or ships for them. Corp’s buying ammo was common practice and CONCORD or the empires never found it to be suspicious as most corps involved in mining need the ammo to fend off the pirates. In this case, the ammo was to be given to the rebels fighting Amarr corps who trade slaves and Vitoc, the substance used to keep slaves subservient that his father had fallen victim too soon after he was born.

Another thing was, his new clients paid good money for these products and Darius knew a good place to get what they needed. For the first time since leaving Pator Tech School, Darius felt like he had found his calling in New Eden.